


The Unsinkable Ship

by drjohnhwatson



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Established Relationship, Historical References, M/M, RMS Titanic, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:53:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9688652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drjohnhwatson/pseuds/drjohnhwatson
Summary: Holmes and Watson board Titanic for her maiden voyage.





	1. Tickets for You

I believe that I can say with little accusation of over-exaggeration that I experienced extraordinary things at the side of Mr. Holmes, but each event pales in comparison to that which took place in the Spring of 1912.

* * *

At times in my writing, I overlooked details I felt irrelevant to the subject matter. At others, I obscured facts or even put down blatant falsehoods. Necessity bade that I do so, especially when dealing with accounts of a more personal nature.

Holmes retired from a life of the gruesome and ghastly, seeking the tranquillity offered up by the countryside. He did not, however, go alone. As I had walked at his side previously, I found no reason why I ought not continue to do so.

Upon my return from the city, I found him out tending to his bees. A few flew around in the air, inspecting the early blooming flowers and buzzing warmly as they landed upon him, exercising their curiosity before continuing their movements elsewhere.

“I am back,” I announced, although I imagined that the man must have nearly sensed me with his uncanny ability. He turned, fixing his netted hat atop his head.

“The bees missed you,” he said, which I doubted sincerely. Holmes had never once been subjected to a single bee-sting whereas I had suffered countless wounds from the flying pests. I dared not complain any longer over it because he always blamed it upon me, saying that I provoked them in some manner. How I did so, I cannot say.

“Only the bees?” I prodded, and his lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, gracing his face for a fraction of a second before fleeing as quickly as it had emerged.

“You have been in Southampton,” he said instead, closing off some of the distance between us but still remaining a pace or two in front of me. “You did not say why, or even that you were going.”

“I believed that you could guess.”

“I do not guess,” he said dismissively. “Nor am I a mind-reader. But...do you know how I came to such conclusions?”

“Oh...it is not an overly long journey. I imagine that you figured out the length of time that I had been absent and ruled out the cities that I could not have travelled to and from in only a few hours. The clothing that I wear now must also tell you of my intended destination and even, perhaps, what I anticipated doing once I arrived.”

“You have forgotten about the mud on your boots.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, glancing down at the offending articles and giving my right one an experimental kick in the grass. “But do you know why it is that I travelled there?”

“I have a few theories. I suspect that you wish to tell me, however, rather than have me suss it out and thus ruin the surprise,” he answered, plopping down in a seat he had dragged out in order to sit with his hive. When he leaned back in the chair, he favoured me with an affectionate gaze.

“I think that it would be a good change of pace to travel,” I blurted, and he raised an eyebrow at my words.

“You do not like the solitude Sussex Downs affords us?”

“It is all well and good, but sometimes one likes to stretch from time-to-time.”

“Yet I do not believe you speak merely of Southampton, else you would have asked me to accompany you on the trip. In fact, I believe that you wished to announce your plans in a different fashion, but your excitement has halted your hand.”

“Have you heard of the Titanic?”

“I do not live completely under a rock,” he said, removing his hat and placing it in his lap before resting his hands atop it. “A ship made to be unsinkable, or so they say. Absurdity, of course, and hubris besides. No such guarantee can be secured.”

“No, of course not,” I responded dismissively. He was right, but I did not want to get into such a subject. “Would you be averse to travelling on her maiden voyage?”

I could not read the expression in his eyes when I produced two tickets. “What of the bees?”

I sighed. “The bees will be fine. I have already talked to Moore; he said he will care for them as necessary.”

He reached forward, plucking away the slips. He examined them for some few moments, turning them over and holding them closer to his face. His eyesight began to fail him a handful of years past, and now he clapped eye-glasses on at times when he needed a precise gaze. I was quite certain, however, that those spectacles were inside on my reading desk.

“First class,” he said finally, glancing up at me curiously. “You do not object to spending such a sum? It must be extravagant.”

“I thought it easier, and I have had some money tucked away, doing nothing but collecting dust.”

He ruminated over my proposal, and then thrust the tickets up into the air. When I relieved him of them, he spoke. “I will go,” he said, returning his hat back to his head. “But I will not be the one to pack.”

I rolled my eyes at his stubbornness, and left him to his bees in order to begin our preparations.

* * *

We made arrangements for travel over the coming days, and boarded the ship on the tenth of April. Holmes was reserved through the proceedings, saying little and not glancing much in my direction, instead devoting his attention to the excitement bubbling around him.

“Look at all the people, Watson.”

I gazed around us at the clustering of men and women, many of whom were bedecked in various furs. When I turned back to him to make my response, I found him staring not at the passengers aboard the ship but rather the people bunched below on land. Children perched atop the shoulders of their fathers, waving and calling out boisterously to us, their voices melding with the other well-wishers.

The ship's whistles blared out, and we started to move almost imperceptibly away from the shore. Holmes said something, and I had to tip my head toward him in order to hear over the exclamations of those stood round us. He had shifted his focus now upon what lie behind us.

“Pardon?”

“The fourth funnel back is a fake,” he said simply, and when I gave him a baffled glance, he pointed to the offending article. “The other three release exhaust, but that one does not. Presumably it was added to please the eye?”

“You find that more interesting than all of this?” I wondered, gesturing to the crowd below, getting caught up in the thrill of the moment and waving to people I would never meet.

“Mmm,” he said non-committally, but he turned to view our progression.

Cheers and crowing turned soon to gasps, and more than a few women shrieked as we continued to pull out from the harbour. A nearby ship slipped its bindings, and as we passed, it was pulled inexorably toward us.

Holmes's hand stole into my own, and he squeezed it tightly as we watched the ship drift helplessly closer. It reminded me of days spent in our youth, when an incident during some case or other alarmed the both of us and drove us to seek comfort in such a manner.

The Titanic turned slowly, and a tugboat drew the other ship in an opposite direction, narrowly avoiding a collision. Holmes released me in order to grasp the railing and peer out at the sea, and I managed to nudge my way to his side.

“What do you think of that?” I asked, and he blinked, pondering my words.

“Of what?”

“We nearly ploughed into that ship!”

“It seemed the other way round,” Holmes said carefully, and I rolled my eyes at his words.

“Whichever the case might be—that surely would have proved disastrous!”

“Oh, inevitably. It might have caused enough damage to ensure the maiden voyage would be scrapped for some time. I sense, however, that is not your true worry,” Holmes said, and he folded his arms upon the metal, leaning forward but cocking his head in order to observe my expression.

I frowned, as he already knew my mind before I could voice it. “I think it a bad omen,” I said, and he smiled just as I wagered he would.

“Ah. My ever dependable Watson.”

“Do not mock me,” I grumbled, placing my hands onto the railing. When I did so he reached out, resting a hand over one of my own, and he gave it a careful pat.

“You think it to be some divine sign, but it was merely a force of nature. Look around you; do not tell me you mean to fret amongst all this celebration?”

“Mmm...no,” I said, and he rose, clapping and rubbing his hands together energetically.

“Excellent. Let us find our rooms, then. I should quite like to explore, if I might.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so. I was once again delving into the ole Kinkmeme of yore, and discovered someone asking for a shipwreck fic. I thought that'd be fun, and wondered about the Titanic, dismissed it with plans to do a different ship entirely, then circled back to it.
> 
> Why COULDN'T I do the Titanic? Not much has been done in terms of Holmes and Watson aboard the ship (REALLY--and it's a travesty!), and they would be just under sixty. So you get retirement age Holmes and Watson AND the Titanic. Truly the best of both worlds!
> 
> So here we go. This is, without a doubt, the single most self-indulgent thing that I have ever written in my life and I doubt anything will top it. I was obsessed as a child with the ship; my entire world revolved around it. I adore Sherlock Holmes. Combine the two--hoo boy!
> 
> A run-down, then:
> 
> -Everything is all written out.  
> -As always, I don't have a beta. Just be gentle, OK? I'm doing it for fun, you know.  
> -I'm going to be throwing out a LOT of facts with this. I'll be doing explanations in the notes, but maybe don't? peek at google if I mention people. It will make the punch of whether they live all the better for you, TRUST me.
> 
> In terms of this chapter, the Titanic really DID almost hit a ship as it was leaving Southampton! The ship in question was the New York (ain't that a coinky-dink?) and the port had too many boats because of a coal shortage, making it difficult for enormous liners (like the Titanic) to navigate effectively. TWO FEET separated the two ships, but they managed to pull through unscathed. Quite a few people undoubtedly saw it as an ill omen.
> 
> See you next chapter!


	2. Bad Dreams and Ill Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams abound upon the ship.

I did not see Holmes the rest of the day. It seemed lonely to dine without him, seated automatically with people that I did not know, and so the next morning I took myself down to the Cafe Parisien instead.

Round and square tables stretched through the long room, each accompanied with four white wicker chairs. Bare light bulbs affixed to the ceiling continued in a straight line the length of the room, but such artificial aids were unnecessary in the early hour of the morning. Light from outside streamed in through the windows that ran alongside the tables, and I realised that a few had been rolled down in order to allow the mild sea air to enter.

I took a table and was quickly greeted by a waiter. As I was not entirely hungry, I requested only some fruit and scones with tea. He scurried off, and I stared out into the sea, engaged with my own thoughts. When he returned after a few moments, I picked at the strawberries and gazed at the white French trellis that decorated the wall opposite me, ivy woven in so that it looked as though one really was dining in Paris.

The room was empty apart from a gathering of young women who tittered every now and again, one laughing loud enough to garner chastisements from the three with her, and they sent me apologetic smiles that wavered as they attempted to stifle their giggling. Apart from the women and myself were two men, one perhaps in his twenties and the other closer to my own age, and both read from novels.

When I finished nibbling at what little I had ordered, I went up and onto the promenade deck, enticed by the air that had wafted into the cafe. I passed a group of two women and two men who spoke animatedly to one another, and a little boy that spun a top as an older man watched him, applauding his dexterity. Two women had pulled out wooden deck chair and lounged in them, soaking up what sunlight they could find as they bundled beneath woolly brown blankets and said nothing to one another.

I stepped past three white lifeboats, running my fingers along the side of one. It seemed at once big, enough to hold a few scores of men, and yet far too small to be upon a ship the size of the Titanic. How on earth could all of the passengers contain themselves in such tiny vessels, left to bob atop the sea?

I shivered, taking my hand away from it and continuing upon my walk.

A particularly strong gust of wind plucked the hat from the head of a woman several yards from me, and the article of clothing tumbled along the wooden deck, bouncing and then becoming airborne again as the lady it belonged to cried out unhappily. I took several paces forward and made a quick, small leap, leaning over and snatching it before it flipped over the railing and was swallowed up by the ocean.

The young woman clutched at her tightly coiled brown hair, astonishment easing into pleasure, and she clapped her hands together like a child, delighted. I would stake all the money I had to my name that she had not yet reached her twentieth year, yet even I could see that she was in a delicate condition, filling out her blue dress and fur-trimmed coat perhaps a little too snugly.

“Ah! Look at that, Rosalie! I thought for certain my hat was lost, and you know I only just got it in Paris.”

“It would have been quite a loss, ma'am,” the middle-aged woman accompanying her responded as I returned the hat.

“John Watson,” I said by way of introduction, knowing it not quite proper but also realising one must make do in certain situations.

“Miss Rosalie Bidois,” the older woman said in a slightly husky tone, nodding her head politely. “I am maid to Mrs. Madeleine Astor.”

The name rumbled in my mind. “Astor? As in...the hotel? Astor, the magnate?”

The woman smiled, affixing the hat to her head and tilting it at a jaunty angle. “That would be my husband, Jack. We have not been married overly long—we have been travelling on our honeymoon a few months now.” She rested her hand upon her front. “I wanted to be back in America for...”

“I understand.”

She nibbled at her lip, staring out onto the sea. It seemed to stretch on an infinity, unbroken but for the swell and dips of waves. “But I wonder...I keep having this...this feeling of foreboding. And I am ill—to my stomach.”

“The second portion of your statement is easily explained away by carrying a child,” I reminded her gently, and she frowned in the fashion of someone who is told something they have heard a million times already.

“I have had the queerest dreams, too. I at first put it down to nervousness at boarding—I...I don't know why. It isn't as though this is my first time,” she laughed, but her amusement rang false in my ears.

“Ma'am...” her maid tutted, but refrained from speaking her mind on the subject to her employer.

“What sort of dreams?” I asked, spurred on by curiosity. The young woman wrung her white, kid-gloved hands together before fiddling with her coat as though finding specks of dirt here and there upon it.

“Everybody is dead,” she said, voice soft and almost a whisper. She looked at neither me nor her maid but rather out upon the ocean, blinking quickly. “Or...not everyone. Some of us are alive. Some of us are in lifeboats. The ship is...is gone. I don't know what happened to it. Fire, maybe.”

“I do not know that a fire could destroy the Titanic,” I argued, doubtful, and she tilted her head, pondering my words.

“No. Possibly not. But what could? That is what they all say to me. 'What could harm the Titanic?' they ask me, and then they laugh before saying it is the whims, the fears of a child. But I am no child,” she said, momentarily fierce before subsiding into quiet melancholy. “I am no child, and I have had this dream twice now. Once, a week ago, and once again last night.”

“Merely that the ship is...is gone?” I wondered, and she laughed bitterly.

“I wish that it were but that. It would not scare me so. The water seems to crawl with the living. They thrash. They beg. They scream. They call for loved ones. They call for us to help them. Some merely call out that God might hear them and help them. I weep and I weep in the dream, but there is nothing that I can do. There is nothing I can do. Jack is...Jack is not there, either. I have told him of this, but he laughs at me and tells me of dreams he had where he is flying or the like. Apparently they are equally ridiculous.”

“I...am sorry,” I said, at a loss for words, and her cheeks coloured as she touched a hand toward her mouth, surprised.

“No, allow me to apologise. I do not know where this came from. You possess a friendly face, that is all, and I supposed that I could pour my worries unto you without being judged. Thank-you again, by the way.”

“For listening?” I wondered, and she smiled, touching at her hat, the enormous feather drooping now.

“For rescuing my hat. And...listening,” she said, and she glanced past me. Her face lit up as she noticed a person approaching just before he spoke.

“There you are. I began to imagine you'd gone overboard for a swim; I couldn't find you anywhere. Not that this ship isn't big enough to lose a person upon it.”

A slender man approached at an ungainly pace. His dark hair was slicked down with oil and his moustache was waxed neatly, and he smiled, extending a hand to me. “John Jacob Astor. The fourth. Jack, though, to friends. I see you've made the acquaintance of my wife.”

I took his hand, quickly noting the egregious difference in age between the pair. He was far closer to my age than to his youthful bride, perhaps just a decade or so younger than myself. “John Watson,” I said simply, and he nodded. I wondered if he catalogued my name into his memory at all, or instead forgot it the moment I uttered it.

“He caught my hat. The wind was rather strong and yanked it from me.”

“Is it not cold up here on deck?” he fussed, pulling her jacket shut around her. She preened beneath the attention, leaning into his hands.

“No. I am quite warm, and besides it is a nice day.”

“But you have not eaten, have you?”

“I have not. I wanted to walk a bit, first. I think it helps in the morning,” she said, and I knew immediately that she referenced her unborn child.

“Then we should eat. Ah! Would you like to join us? The seating is arranged in the restaurant, as you know, but we could always get something in the cafe. Or perhaps the a la carte room—I think I heard someone call it 'the Ritz'. On me, of course, as thanks for a kindness to my wife.”

“I thank-you, but I just came from the cafe myself,” I admitted, and we parted ways with promises that we ought to run into one another again at some point.

Left alone, I leaned against the railing, wind tugging lightly at my jacket and hair as I mused over what the woman had said about her dreams.

* * *

I wished to make use of some of the more unique facilities, and so I paid a shilling to the Enquiry Office on the C deck and continued down to the F deck with a swimming costume in hand. I entered the designated room, sighting the stretch of stalls, each possessing a wooden door for modesty. I chose the one second closest to me, disappearing inside in order to change into more proper attire, spending as little time as possible inside as I could manage. My body had changed in a number of ways over the years, and it did me little good weighing over my shifting appearance.

I exited, finding the wooden steps leading into the water, and I stepped cautiously into it, uncertain of how it would feel. To my surprise, the water bore a pleasant warmth to it, and I sank more readily into it, feet brushing against the white tile.

A man trod water at the far end of the swimming bath, and upon hearing my entrance, swam over with an ease of grace I envied slightly.

“Did you come because you anticipated I would be here?” Sherlock Holmes asked, ceasing his stroke and blowing water out of his face as he bobbed next to me.

“No,” I lied, and when a quick smile broke his face, I amended my answer. “Well...yes.”

He laughed. “People are predictable creatures, after-all.”

He would not admit it, and I would never dream of saying so, but I knew the reasons behind his dips in water, both here and at home. He feigned that he preferred to keep fit, fearing he might slip into decrepitude otherwise, and I pretended that I believed it, knowing that he made small, similar allowances toward me. It was instead because of the arthritis that attacked his joints—swimming often alleviated his pain when it flared.

“I am surprised that it is heated. I...did not anticipate it.”

“I could see that by your face when you entered the water,” he said, tone amused. “I should like to know more of how this ship operates—of the work that goes into everything. I attempted last night.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” I wondered, resting my back against the tiles. He preferred to swim toward the steps and, as they were not currently in use, sit upon one of them whilst remaining largely submerged.

“I did not pack any sort of material that I could use to guise my appearance, but I like to think that I have the gift of persuasion. I had nearly made my way into a boiler room before someone took suspicion to my presence.”

“What on earth would make you go down there?” I wondered, but I already knew precisely what drove him. In the years following his retirement, he channelled his curiosity into various avenues, delving into whatever attracted his attention in the moment before generally abandoning it for some other interest. I did not overly mind it—I vastly preferred it to the black moods and the cocaine usage that had otherwise plagued him when in the throes of a dearth of cases.

“As I said before,” he remarked plainly, as though I chose simply to ignore his words. “It is salt water as well. Intriguing, that we might swim in an enclosed space whilst sailing upon the sea.”

“The Olympic had a swimming bath just like this one. She was the first, though,” I said, and he stared blankly at me. “The sister ship to the Titanic.”

“Ah. I see.” He remarked dismissively, unruffled that he had not known the Titanic to possess any siblings.

I swam to the opposite end in order to get some use out of the shilling I parted with, and Holmes slipped back into the water, trailing after me. Save for some greying of the hair and clustering of wrinkles about the eyes, he had not changed much at all from the day that I first met him.

“We have not spoken much since we boarded yesterday. Is that what bothers you?” he asked suddenly when I had stopped my swimming, and I was surprised.

“Why do you ask?”

“I am well accustomed to your moods. Your whims. Your expressions,” he said, voice low over the lapping of the water. “I would be a poor consulting detective indeed if I did not notice something amiss.”

“Former consulting detective,” I reminded him, words tossed casually over my shoulder as I swam back in the direction of the steps.

“Watson,” Holmes grumbled, but I heard the affection in his voice as he once more followed me.

“You are as accustomed to my moods as I am to your behaviour. I did not believe you would ignore—or avoid—me this entire trip. That is unlike you,” I said, now taking a seat upon the steps. He bobbed in front of me, reaching out a hand beneath the water to hold upon the edge of the stairs.

“Is it?”

“Without first alerting me? Yes,” I said, knowing he attempted now to weasel out the information he wished to acquire.

“Something is weighing upon your mind,” he said confidently.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But...it is not me,” he said, markedly less assured.

“No.”

“I have said time and again that I am no mind-reader, Watson...”

“I met the Astors,” I said, sighing when he once more stared at me with no recognition upon his face. “They are fabulously wealthy.”

“As are most people we shall run into; you guaranteed that with the tickets you purchased.”

“Mrs. Astor spoke to me of a dream that she has had twice now. Once before she left, and once again last night.”

“Hm?” he wondered, reaching his free left hand out in order to smooth back his wet hair from falling into his face.

“She...she dreamt that the ship had vanished. She offered fire as a culprit in her mind. Whatever the reason, it had...had sunk. Or something of that nature. Lifeboats were set out, but there were people in the sea, shouting. Dying.”

Holmes frowned, releasing the ladder. “Why would people be in the water? As Mrs. Astor said herself—lifeboats were set out.”

“I cannot say.”

“Barring that, it was a dream.”

“Yes, Mrs. Astor said she had been told the same.”

“I imagine so. Is this how you have spent your time? Looking for ill omens?”

“No,” I answered peevishly. He saw that his statement rankled, and his expression softened.

“I wish that you would not fret.”

“I don't,” I argued half-heartedly, a measure of futility as it seemed at times that he could read me like a well-worn and favoured book.

“Sometimes I believe it is all that you do,” he said quietly, leaning forward to cup a hand against my cheek.

“It is not all that I do,” I countered, and he laughed. He laughed, and then he covered my mouth with his own. I leaned back into the steps, inviting him to draw nearer, his hands upon my shoulders, and I tasted the salt upon his lips.

Just as quickly as he initiated the kiss he ceased it, moving several paces back in the water, and I wondered at the action, a question on my tongue as the door to the room opened. A gaggle of young men entered, their voices and laughter loud in the echoing space, and they disappeared into the stalls, still calling to one another even as they were separated.

Holmes returned to bestow a kiss upon the tip of my nose, offering me a wink as he did so. “I cannot speak for you, but I am utterly famished and have yet to make use of the restaurant itself. Would you join me for dinner?”

“God, yes,” I said, and I followed him up the steps and out of the warm water, flesh instantly pimpling itself in the cool air.

* * *

In the dining room, Holmes and I worked our way through the courses. While he sank into a sirloin of beef accompanied by château potatoes, I carved through a roast duckling with apple sauce, marvelling at the white arches and high ceilings. Table after table crowded the room, coated with white tablecloths, and the noise around us was a dull roar of excited voices.

“I am astonished that I still own evening wear that fits me,” I remarked. “It has been so long since there has been occasion to wear anything this fine.”

Something I said displeased Holmes; his lips quirked downward ever so slightly and he glanced off to the side. He brushed it aside, however. “Imagine if I wandered in wearing my natty dressing gown.”

I laughed, covering my mouth with a napkin in a flimsy attempt to cover the sound. “And I am certain they would turn you away, perhaps with pitchforks.”

“Ah. Well. It would be a show, at least.”

“Apologies if we are muscling in here,” a somewhat short, pudgy fellow said, apologetic smile creasing his face. “We were held up a little, and...”

“It is no problem,” I assured the stranger. “And no intrusion.”

He pulled the green-backed seat out for the woman accompanying him, and she settled into it with a murmured thanks before he slipped into the one across from Holmes.

“Jacques Futrelle,” he said, the warmth of the southern States thick in his voice. Holmes sat up straighter, wriggling slightly where he sat.

“Ah! Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen!” he cried, much to my astonishment. The man who had just arrived laughed, a rich, pleasant baritone.

“A fan?”

“I do not much go in for novel reading—or rather I did not. I find myself much freed with my time now, and I cannot help but admire the man. The character, I mean,” he said, slightly embarrassed before continuing. “'The Thinking Machine'! Would that any person could be in such possession, such control of their faculties! Able to apply logic and reasoning to any situation.”

“There are many on the force that do so on a daily basis,” the stranger remarked, pausing only to give his and the woman's order to the waiter that had appeared. Our plates disappeared with the promise of cauliflower on the horizon.

“There are few that do,” Holmes corrected quickly. “If only there were many.”

Futrelle smiled, puzzled. “You speak as though you have a more intimate knowledge than myself. I profess to being merely a writer. Are you a policeman, by chance? Or...you?” he wondered, offering me the chance to speak.

“No. A doctor. Well, retired.”

“In practice only. If I were to collapse here, attacked by my own heart, I can dine happily knowing you would jump in to aid me, certainly.”

“Ah, of course. John Watson,” I said, nodding to him rather than impolitely standing and reaching across the table in order to take his hand. He nodded in return. “And my friend here is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Eee!” the woman squealed, hands clapped to her face at the introductions. “I love your stories!” she directed at me, then turned to Holmes. “And I love you!”

Holmes pinkened at the pronouncement, and I bit back a smile.

“This is my wife May. Ain't she a peach?”

“It's lovely to meet you—sorry, I'm just surprised. I thought we'd be seated with some stuffy oil tycoon or...or railroad magnate. I've heard that the Astors are onboard,” Mrs. Futrelle said.

“I have met with them only just today,” I said as our dishes made their way to the table. Holmes busied himself with the food as Futrelle leaned back, thoughtful.

“Is it true, then?” Mrs. Futrelle wondered, giving me a conspiratorial glance.

“What?” I wondered, and she glanced around as though someone might overhear us above the din of plates clattering and people speaking.

“Mrs. Astor is young enough to be his child,” she said, and then she clucked her tongue for good measure.

“I don't know about that,” I said, cautious to wade into such a conversation.

“No, it's true. His son is nearly two years older than she is,” her husband said blithely. “The cauliflower is lovely.”

“Then I suppose that it's true.”

“They were utterly shunned after it. The only person that took to it was that Maggie Brown—because she would, wouldn't she? She's been with them on their honeymoon and she's even accompanied them back on the ship, too!”

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, and when I glanced at Holmes he gave me a stare that suggested he was the last person I should look to for aid on such a subject.

“They're Englishmen—remember, darling? Maggie's husband—former; they've divorced—made his money in mining. The women cluck like hens because she's not established wealth. They only fell into it. As though being born with a spoon in your mouth gives the money to your name any additional value.”

“I take it you yourself were not born into such riches?” I asked, and Futrelle snorted.

“Not hardly. I can only imagine what the lot say about me when my back is turned. I wrote little stories and edited a paper. I'm not fit to shine boots, surely.”

“If it is worth any consolation, I would rather dine with you than the others,” Holmes said genuinely, and the writer smiled.

“From Sherlock Holmes? I ought to have you jot that down on paper and sign it. But is it true that you are retired now?”

“Yes, I am afraid so. For some years now.”

“And London has not burst into flames or sunk into the sea?” Futrelle wondered.

“Not since I have checked, but I cannot remark as to its current status or whereabouts.”

“Have you business in New York?” Mrs. Futrelle asked, as our dishes were whisked away to be replaced with plover on toast and cress salad.

“No. It was a whim of Watson's to board the ship.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Futrelle said, disappointment heavy upon her face. “I thought you might say you had some little mystery you were engaged in.”

“Dear, he's retired—remember?”

“Still,” she said, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. “If there was someone quite bad, that no one could ferret out, he wouldn't simply let them go, would he?”

“Impossible to actually commit to a life of quiet and peace? Retirement in name only?” I offered, and when the woman nodded, I laughed. “I understand completely.”

Holmes favoured me with a muddled glance that I could not read, busying himself with his own glass.

“So. Now that I have you before me—what was it truly like dealing with Professor Moriarty?”

“I cannot fathom what Watson passed off to you as fact in the story that he penned,” Holmes said, which I knew to be a lie. Perhaps he did not read all of the cases I had written up, but he had read that one. More than once. He regretted our parting due to Reichenbach and the years that fell between us during that time; he admitted it one night when the both of us had taken more than we ought have of some particularly sweet wine.

“Surely no one believed you that a professor of mathematics would be behind such a nefarious web?”

“I did not need to convince anyone save myself. What I needed was to obtain evidence, and I went about doing just that.”

“And then you fought him to the death. At the brink of a waterfall. For whatever reason, I did not think you the type.”

Holmes shot daggers in my direction, and I busied myself with the food in front of me. So delicious.

“It was not as if I set out with the thought that I would end his life and save all of Europe from him. I...would never have planned that. I should have been happy to allow Justice to take its court, all the proper wheels spinning in place. He, however, could not abide that. It was either myself or him.”

“I think I conveyed that fairly well,” I argued, and Holmes gazed at me, mollified.

“Regardless—any one of us possesses the capacity for murder.”

“I do not know about that,” Mrs. Futrelle said, prodding at the meat upon her plate before meeting Holmes's eyes. “What of a child, for example?”

“I have heard instances of a child taking a gun and blowing off the head of his father,” Holmes said blandly, as though he commented on the weather instead.

“Imagine if someone were to walk past and overhear our conversation!” Mr. Futrelle said with a laugh.

“It would be their fault for prying,” Mrs. Futrelle mumbled, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

“Is that a signal that I should cease my talk?” Holmes asked.

“Oh, no. I am more than used to it from my husband, and my constitution is strong as brass,” the wife responded quickly, sitting up straighter in her seat. “But a gun is far different than...than grappling with someone. Or...pushing them, rather from a great height or down a flight of stairs.”

“There is intimacy in the action,” I said.

“I do not know that I should call it that,” said Holmes, and I was not surprised that he would take issue to my interjection. “I believe it a matter of convenience, instead. Why struggle with the possibility of failure when a bullet to the heart shutters matters nicely?”

“This discussion really is grim,” I objected, realising that the woman quite lapped up what Holmes was saying.

“Do you regret it?” Futrelle leaned back in his seat, thoughtfully appraising the detective.

“No,” Holmes said with no hesitation. “Things might have turned out differently—in a negative way.”

“I see. As I recall, there was one story in which you might have killed a man should things have gone differently—what was it?”

“Three Garridebs,” I supplied. Holmes's right hand clenched, bunching up some of the white tablecloth into his fist, but the couple did not notice.

“My...temper got the better of me in that instance,” Holmes said carefully. He glanced down and seemed to realise he gripped the table, releasing it and edging back into his seat.

“No one could fault you. I would have brained the man who dealt my friend a wound, and more besides if it had been fatal.”

Holmes gave me a long glance that said more than any words could, and then he cleared his throat. “I feel a bit like a bug beneath a microscope. I should really like to discuss Dusen more.”

“Ah, I hoped we had managed to steer Jacques away from such a subject,” Mrs. Futrelle sighed, but her smile was fond as her husband rubbed his hands together.

“But of course! What would you like to know?”

* * *

After dinner, Holmes and I went to separate rooms. It felt foreign to me. Even when the two of us lived beneath Mrs. Hudson's roof, we often shared a bed, even if we only slept in it. More often than not it was my bed, as Holmes kept his room much as he did the sitting room—ie, an unmitigated disaster. Papers strewn everywhere, wigs about the chest of drawers and upon the floor, ash in every conceivable nook and crevice, weapons of various origins and lethality poking out in unsavoury places—not to mention his mattress was harder than my own.

The room I occupied was more lavish than what I was accustomed to living in; red paper decorated with whirls coated the walls, and the floor was covered by a white-patterned tile. A small table with four seats and a lamp awaited me should I wish to dash off any correspondence or read a novel, but instead I sunk onto the plush white sheets of the bed.

I stood back up as if prodded with a searing poker, however, and paced the length of the cabin. I could knock upon his door. He would let me in, surely. I knew Holmes would not be asleep at this hour; if anything, his increasing age had only added to the eccentricity of the hours that he kept. I could find him awake at five in the morning just as easily as I could find him dead asleep at five in the evening.

I took a step toward my door, vacillated in my hesitation, and then re-commenced with my pacing. In the end I changed into my night garb and shut off the lights, climbing unwillingly into bed. I turned and thrashed for what must have been a good half of an hour and eventually succumbed to slumber.

* * *

The ship groaned beneath my feet, tremor shuddering up through me as it let out a monstrous death-bellow. I dashed toward the railing, toward the lifeboats, but found they had vanished. They dotted out instead upon the sea, bobbing white upon the glassy blackness. Some held one or two people, or seemingly none at all, and I noted one was turned the wrong-side up. Men scrabbled frantically at it, trying to claw their way atop it as they dripped water like drowning rats.

A child wailed behind me, and I turned, attempting to find his mother.

“Leave him, Watson,” Holmes said, at my side now.

“What!” I cried, astonished. “He will die.”

“He has already perished,” Holmes said softly, and I realised solemnly that it was so as the boy now lie flat and unmoving upon the deck. A woman screamed nearby, but her words were not in any language that I recognised, her fingers drawing down her face and leaving reddened marks in their wake.

“What can we do?”

“We jump.”

“The water will be freezing! It is only April,” I argued, but Holmes merely dove over the railing without another word.

The drop should have been a great one, enough to stun a man upon impact so that he would drown before he could regather his thoughts, yet we were close enough to the water now to nearly step off into it.

I leapt in after Holmes. The water seemed not cold but warmer than I would have imagined; sweat ran down into my face and I blew it back as I fought through the crowds of people now swarming in the water.

A mass of arms overtook me, desperate to clamber onto something that would see them out of the sea. Forced beneath the water, I choked in a lungful of the ocean before I fought back against the people, striking them off me and finding the surface once more, coughing and hacking in air.

A lifeboat with only one solitary woman in it drifted through us, and she clutched onto an oar like a cricket bat.

“Help us!”

“Let us in!”

“Save us!”

“I can't; any more weight might swamp me!” she cried, holding the oar closer to her.

Each person grasped at the boat, rocking it, yet they seemed unable to gain purchase, and she slipped on, unhindered.

“Holmes!” I shouted, uninterested in finding salvation lest it be with Holmes at my side. “Holmes!”

My shout mingled with that of others, and I fancied that I heard it echoed at one point. I swam forward, but it was as though I moved through molasses. I struggled to pull myself even a few yards through the sea, and I began to press people aside in my search.

Soon I spotted the back of his head in the crowd, and I made it to him, grasping his shoulders and turning him to face me.

His grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, dimmed already and unaware of the horrors around him as his mouth opened into a slack 'o'.

* * *

I sat bolt upright, soaked in sweat and breathing hard. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I stumbled, feet tangling in the sheets in the darkness. I cursed, kicking myself free, and quit the room entirely.

The hallway was deserted and quiet at this hour, and I turned to the cabin next to my own, rapping upon the door.

“Enter, Watson,” the voice said immediately, and I did so, shutting the door behind myself and leaning against it once inside.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked, and he yawned, removing his spectacles and closing the novel he had with him in bed.

“You believe I cannot discern your knock amongst any other after all these years?” he chastised gently before sobering. “Bad dream?”

“And how...?” I wondered, somewhat cross that he could know so easily with a moment's glance.

Holmes explained for my benefit, laughing lightly. “When we parted ways, you made mention of turning in for the night. You are dressed in your night-clothes, and the bleariness of sleep still clings to your face. Barring that, it is half of one and you are not generally given to puttering around at such an hour,” he listed, and then paused. “There is only one thing for it.”

There is only one thing for it. A phrase made common over my time spent with Holmes. Each terror and remnant of war that haunted me when I shut my eyes for rest was soothed away by Holmes, who welcomed me to his bed after every incident. Not once in our long association had he ever turned me aside.

“Put out the light first, if you would,” he ordered.

I did as he bid, darkness no relief as I relived the horrors I had dreamt only moments earlier.

“Watson,” he said, somewhat sharply, and I blinked, snapped from my thoughts. Haltingly I sought out the bed and found it with some trial and error, climbing in with him. He drew the blankets up so that they covered me, but he did not lie down. Nor did I.

His warmth, close at hand, ought to feel repellent to my feverish skin, but it was as much a balm as his invitation.

“I had a dream,” I said finally, and though I could not see him, I could hear the delight in his voice when he answered me.

“As you confirmed previously. I might be old, but my memory has not lapsed so severely as to forget that quickly.”

I said nothing and he reached out, finding my shoulder instantly. He rubbed it gently.

“Watson? Maiwand again?”

“No,” I said, shuddering out a breath. “It was...it was of this ship. It sank. No, it was sinking.”

Holmes fell silent, picking his words. “You told me young Mrs. Astor had a nightmare of similar calibre.”

“I did. Do you think...?” I trailed off, knowing the words to be absurd. Holmes, to his credit, did not snort at me, speaking softly instead, hand still massaging against me.

“It to be a premonition? An omen? No. It is common to have anxiety when travelling, and this translates to interrupted sleep. I should be surprised if no one had such dreams.”

I did not say anything.

“Feeling soothed?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Watson,” he clucked, detecting my deception instantly and pulling away. “What really has you rattled?”

“I...it was you. I could not save you. So many died, but that did not matter to me. I could not save you. I found you, bobbing there—bobbing there...” the words spilled out of me as did hot tears, and once I had summoned them forth, I found difficulty in ceasing them.

“I should not have had you turn the light off—I should not have been so flippant,” Holmes said to himself, flipping the blankets back.

“Leave it off,” I responded miserably, but he found it and lit the room with light too bright for my tired eyes. 

“Watson...”

“I know, it's foolish,” I said, manoeuvring to leave the bed but stopping first to scrub at my eyes.

“Stop,” he said, and he caught my hands, kneeling in front of me on the floor. He winced.

“You don't have to—” I began quickly, not wishing to pain him, but he spoke over me.

“I thought it an unspoken agreement between us that you might come to me with anything, and not feel belittled for it.”

“It is hardly rational.”

“It is human,” he said, and he stared up at me. “Is it not?”

“I suppose,” I said grudgingly, and the ghost of a smile flit across his face before it fell away.

“Do you regret seeking me out? Would you have preferred to stay in your own room?”

“No!” I responded, with as much feeling as I could manage. He ran his fingers along the joints of my knuckles for a moment, thoughtful.

“Would I be a brute if I kicked you out?” he teased, and when he coaxed a laugh from me, a true smile slid onto his face.

“Perhaps the biggest one upon this ship, at least, if not upon the sea.”

“Well, I wouldn't want that,” he said finally, and bestowed a kiss upon the palm of my right hand. “If you do not object, however, it's out with the light again.”

He rose, grimacing again and grasping at the bed for support before crossing the room and turning out the light. He moved without sound, and I only realised that he returned when the bed sagged ever so slightly, and he pulled some of the blankets over onto his side.

Silence fell upon the both of us, and stretched long enough that I was certain he had lapsed into sleep.

“Are you awake?” I wondered, voice sounding loud in my ears.

“Yes, I am,” Holmes responded, tone dripping with amusement. “Next you'll tell me that you are, too.”

I felt—fumbled, really—in the dark, trying to find the man. He caught my seeking hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing my fingertips against his cheek like a whisper. I rolled over, flush against him, and levered up just so, palms flat upon the mattress as I spoke a hair's breadth from his mouth.

“Why are you so kind to me?” I asked him, and he hesitated.

His voice was soft when he answered me. “I believe you know the answer, Doctor.”

I kissed him deeply then, and his hands fluttered against my back before drawing me closer.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Some notes.
> 
> -Madeleine Astor was definitely a real person. So was Jack Astor. So was her maid. I used all the right names and whatnot to the very best of my knowledge (and Astor did like to be called Jack). Her dream, though, I made up. Or maybe she had it and I guessed it--I wouldn't know. She was eighteen, and Jack was forty-seven. She really WAS (roughly) two years younger than his son--and his son LOATHED her. Hated her.
> 
> -Jacques and May Futrelle were passengers, and he did have a sci-fi series. I admit I haven't read it, though (whoops), so I didn't really want to jump in too deep. I just figured Holmes would absolutely love to talk to a fellow who's written a detective who is a pure logic machine.
> 
> -All the little places I describe on the ship here and in future chapters were real. It's hard to find details for some (MOST), believe it or not. There is raging debate as to the colours of tiles or panelling or carpeting or what have you because there are hardly any pictures extant, and those were in black and white. We can do our best by making comparisons to the Olympic, as they were rather similar, yet they changed colours for the Titanic in order to make her "her own" ship and not a carbon copy of the Olympic, so it's still pretty difficult. I've tried my best to be at least a little accurate and create a nice ambiance, though.
> 
> In terms of these dreams, you might go "come on! This is too much!" Not true, dear readers! SO MANY PEOPLE had bad dreams about the Titanic, to the point that some of them honestly cancelled their tickets. There's a lot of information out there--there was one third class passenger in particular that had a dream EVERY SINGLE NIGHT he was on board that the Titanic would sink, and he told a bunch of other passengers about it. When asked how he was sure it would, he said that he'd seen it hit an iceberg. The night it happened, he warned a bunch of people that it was going to sink THAT NIGHT. Eerie stuff.
> 
> As for the Three Garridebs reference...I KNOW it was published in 1924. So...twelve years after the Titanic. Let me just have this, please. It took place in 1902--isn't that good enough?!
> 
> Also I figure I'm gonna do a Tuesday/Thursday thing for this. I'll post again this Thursday, then next Tuesday, and I'll finish it next Thursday.
> 
> See you next chapter!


	3. The Egyptian Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson meet some new people and hear an interesting story

I did not anticipate that Holmes would be with me when I woke, and I was not surprised to find the bed empty and cold to the touch. I returned to my room to change into proper clothing, and I took one of the daisies left for me at some unknown time, popping it into my button hole.

I wandered down to the Cafe Parisien, not particularly hungry but of the mind that I ought to eat something, and was pleased to find Holmes at one of the tables, peering out onto the water.

“Were you expecting someone?” I wondered, gesturing to the plate of buckwheat cakes across from him and cup of tea, both untouched.

“You,” he said, broken from his reverie. He glanced up at me from the corner of his eye and made a vague gesture to the seat.

“Oh, now, really,” I grumbled, pulling out the chair and plopping down into it. His grey eyes glittered, but he said nothing. “I begin to think that your protestations at being unable to glimpse into the mind are blatant falsehoods.”

“I will lay my reasoning out before you, then, and you can determine whether you think me capable of powers beyond my ken,” he said, leaning forward and ticking off upon his fingers as I spread butter upon the foodstuff and followed with syrup.

“I am listening.”

“You have never been one for large breakfasts, and your appetite has only diminished with time. You ate a large meal last night, which would only weaken your resolve to break your fast. Whenever you have ill dreams, you are generally put off food. 

“Would you wander to the saloon to take your meal? I thought not. The Futrelles are generally nice people, but are by-and-large unknown to you. You prefer meals to be with those with which you are accustomed, at least so soon after rousing. You did not want to waste course after course to satisfy what is only a small hunger, and so you wished to come to a place you had already visited. Over dinner, you mentioned to Mr. Futrelle that you had been to the Cafe but not to the a la carte restaurant.”

I sighed, astonished. “But my tea! It is warm—no, it is hot! How on earth could you estimate when I would be here?”

“This is the general time that you wake. That was, perhaps, the easiest deduction to make out of the lot of them.”

I shook my head, enjoying my breakfast as he stared at me.

“Do you declare it simplicity now that I have explained it all to you?”

“It is remarkable,” I said instead, knowing that I would ruffle his feathers to say otherwise. He preened, turning in his seat and taking his cup of coffee with him, sipping as he did so.

“I admit that I cannot understand the fanfare over this liner. Are there not similarly sized ones?”

“You are making a joke, right?” I wondered, knowing that of course he was not. He stared blankly at me, and I rolled my eyes.

“You really ought not expunge information or block it out entirely any more. You have retired, and need not fill your head with gruesome minutiae.”

“No?” he asked, and his dark tone suggested something that I did not understand.

“No...?” I responded hesitantly, baffled at the turn of conversation. He did not illuminate the issue to me, instead continuing to stare out at the water, and I continued. “She has a sister ship by the name of the Olympic.”

“How long is she?”

“Ah...I believe I read eight hundred and eighty two feet in length.”

“And the Titanic?”

“The same, plus about nine inches.”

Holmes frowned deeply. “All of this fuss over nine inches? It is patently ridiculous.”

I finished off the cakes and took a swig of my tea. “It is less to do with the size and more to do with the amenities.”

“Oh. I see,” he remarked, frown returning. I was about to ask him about it when he changed tack. “What are your plans for today?”

“You aren't going to tell me what I plan to do?” I asked innocently, hiding as much of my face behind my teacup as I could when he glowered at me from across the table.

“As I have told you time and again...”

“What about you? Do you wish to swim again?”

“No,” he said easily. “It was nice, and a neat oddity, the warm saltwater, but I think I have done enough swimming on this voyage. And I believe I was asking you as to your plans and not the other way round.”

“I do not recall that.”

“You are utterly exasperating,” he said with no heat, setting his cup down to tap his fingers upon the table. “I have a proposal, if you'd like to accompany me.”

“I should love to—but where? And to what?”

“I will not answer either question as punishment to your earlier behaviour,” he said, downing the rest of his coffee as I protested.

“Oh, no! We aren't going to start that, else I shall have a list of grievances to make against you.”

“Those possess dates of expiration, my dear doctor. Really, you must be more careful,” he tutted, rising, and then he offered his arm down to me.

* * *

Holmes led me back down to the F deck, and I expressed confusion when we arrived at the swimming bath. He overrode my questioning, pulling me onward and to a different room that I had not explored.

A Turkish Bath!

“I suppose they really have thought of everything,” I remarked to him, and he merely offered me a shrug of the shoulders.

In short action we stripped, stored our valuables in lockers, and were scrubbed down for a shampoo and rinsed off before being scuttled to the cooling room.

Holmes yawned, leaning back in his white and red patterned seat as I glanced around myself.

“It has a Moorish influence,” I mused, viewing the huge swathes of green and white Damask tiles that were surrounded by smaller bands of similarly decorated tiles only done in blue.

“It is garish,” Holmes remarked, disinterested as he shut his eyes.

The blue and white tiles underfoot looked almost to possess the shaping of flowers, and wood panelled the room. It was nearly too much to take in, but Holmes was as unimpressed as if I had offered him a twig.

“Did you count the lockers?” he wondered drowsily.

“I did not,” I said, and he tsked at my answer as I knew that he would.

“There were sixteen.”

“A...fair number, I suppose,” I was uncertain of what he wanted to hear from me.

“But only fifteen in total.”

“I do not understand.”

“No thirteenth locker. You are in good company, Watson.”

“I am not afraid of a number,” I said peevishly.

“Ah. Sometimes there is meaning in such presentiments,” a man called, three seats down and across from where Holmes and I sat. He was a stocky man, and had soft, brown eyes that spoke of kindness and reflected a certain sense of melancholy.

“Do not start with this again,” the fellow to his right sighed. He was older than his companion by a good two decades, smaller and finer featured to boot.

“You are superstitious?” I asked, and the older man shook his head.

“I think that he is over-stressed.”

“Government will do that to a man; well I know it from my brother,” Holmes said without prompt, startling the two strangers.

“How the devil did you know that?”

“I know also that you embarked on some sort of travel in order to sooth your nerves, but it has done precisely the opposite. You did not wish to leave initially, did you? Or perhaps you changed your mind later?”

“Later,” the bulky man said quietly. “I was prompted to do so, although I am against it. Archibald Willingham DeGraffenreid Clarendon Butt. Archie will do.”

He introduced himself after he had moved from his original seat to one across from Holmes, and his companion took the seat opposite my own.

“You are a military man and served in a conflict. I admit that I am not as well-read in terms of the goings-on across the pond, but I suppose it must be the Spanish-American conflict?”

“Astounding.”

“Me next!” the man with him cried excitedly, and Holmes stifled a smile at his exclamation.

“You also have seen war—I think more than once—but not as a combatant. You are an artist, your favoured medium being that of paint, but you are fond of writing as well.”

“Marvellous. Frank Millet, by the way. It's just as you said! I was a drummer boy in the war in the states before assisting my father in his surgeries. A decade later, I did correspondence during the skirmish between Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Seeing the bright red of spilt blood really gave me an appreciation for the use as a colour on canvas.”

“John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah,” the two men exchanged a glance.

“That explains it,” Millet said. “You know, I thought I had heard rumour that you were aboard, but I dismissed it. What would hold your fancy here?”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, declining from conjuring up any fantastical scenarios with the painter, who pouted slightly.

“You did not wish to leave?” I asked Butt, who sighed.

“I...am a jumble of emotions. At first I felt guilt, as though leaving my post. William—that is, President Taft—would be left to deal with the troubles of an election while I hopped here and there across Europe. It did not seem fair.”

“He is an aide to William,” Millet said for my benefit. “He also neglects to mention that he is friends too with Theodore.”

“Theodore?” Holmes asked blankly, and Millet gave him a look as though he just suggested we all go and dine upon the moon.

“Roosevelt.”

Holmes said nothing; I doubted the addition of the surname cleared up any confusion he might possess. I also suspected that he would not have known Taft's name without Butt attaching his position.

“It leaves him in an awful point of wishing to help the both of them without ruffling any feathers. And I have told you time and again, Archie—it is impossible. It is why I suggested the travel in the first place. I thought it might do him some good and bring calm to his life. I suppose that it has done exactly the opposite and made him more anxious than before ever we left.”

“I cancelled my trip entirely, although William...encouraged that I resume my plans. I have never had such a peculiar and constant feeling of impending trouble.”

“He has even done up a will—can you imagine that? This is the stress he is under,” Millet tutted, and my eyebrows lifted at such an admission.

“I have possessed this feeling for months now; I cannot shake it. It is the most terrible sensation I have had in my life that I am to be at the centre of some awful calamity. That...I will encounter some terrible danger. It has only intensified upon setting foot on this ship, when I thought the praise of its safety would wipe the worry from me.”

Holmes glanced at me, shaking his head in an almost imperceptible degree. I knew what he warned against, but I could not stop myself.

“A bad dream woke me last night,” I blurted, and Holmes's lips turned down in disapproval.

“Pray tell,” Butt said softly, leaning forward with genuine interest.

I wondered if Holmes was right—if I ought to be quiet. If an over-abundance of nerves pressed upon the man, my tidings of ill omens would not do him a whit of good. And yet.

“The ship cracked and groaned. Whatever caused its distress—I cannot say. But it was sinking, and lifeboats had been sent out.”

“It is unsinkable,” Millet tsked. “That was part of the allure that drew Archie to it.”

“It is not unsinkable,” Holmes broke in. “It was made by human hands and is thus subjected to human fault.”

“People...so many people languished in the water.”

“But the lifeboats,” Millet insisted. “Why would they be in the water if there were lifeboats?”

“I cannot say,” I muttered, as it was something I wondered myself. “People fought to survive like animals. It was...horrific.”

Butt shivered even though the room was warm, and stroked at his moustache. “It does not sooth me at all to realise that another shares my fear.”

“It ought not excite you,” Holmes insisted. “There are hundreds upon this ship. If every single person dreamt the same dream, felt the same disinclination to board, to travel, as you did, then my opinion would be markedly different. Mr. Millet.”

“Yes?” Millet wondered, sitting up straighter after being addressed.

“Have you had any dreams?”

“No.”

“Any worries or anxiety about travelling?”

“None at all. I am, I'll remind you, the one who suggested he travel with me. I should not have done so if I could not guarantee my own safety.”

“Are you telling the truth or lying as he is right next to you?” I pressed, and Millet scowled.

“I am not lying, and I think he needs to put all of this from his mind.”

“Out of the four of us, two are unburdened with thoughts of the safety of this journey,” Holmes tallied.

“That means that two of us are,” I argued.

“A firm grasp of the facts, Watson. I thank-you,” Holmes said with more bite than I would have liked.

“An even split,” Butt murmured, and sank back into his sorrow.

* * *

“You should not have said a word at all to Butt,” Holmes grumbled, sitting on the edge of his bed but tapping his foot upon the ground in a bad temper.

“I should have lied, then?”

“Lied? He did not ask you whether you had bad dreams—you told him that yourself. You should have held your tongue.”

“I could not,” I said from my seat at the little table.

“No, you could not,” he agreed, and I was annoyed. “Did it make him feel better in the least?”

“I cannot say; I am not privy to the man's inner workings,” I said, and caught a sharp glance from Holmes as a result of my acerbic wit.

“Did it make you feel better?”

“Leagues.”

“Watson!”

“Fine,” I huffed. “No. Of course it did not. I cannot get the image out of my mind, although heaven knows I should like to have the opportunity to drown you myself in this moment.”

“You need to quit this. The only thing that emanates from it is that you make yourself feel all the worse. The more that you ruminate upon it, the more that you will think on it. It is a nasty cycle.”

“I cannot stop myself from thinking about it. If I could, I would!”

“You could certainly halt yourself from discussing it with other people.”

I had a few choice words for the man in terms of a rebuttal, but a knock upon his door brought me up short. He rose to answer it, and I heard the voice of the man we had dined with the previous night.

“Ah—it's me. Jacques Futrelle. Perhaps you remember...?”

“How could I forget! I delight in your stories. Um...would you like to step in?”

Futrelle did so, touching lightly at his hat when he spotted me sitting at the table. I raised a hand in a polite—if half-hearted—wave. “Ah! Doctor Watson. Fantastic luck, finding you here. Or...probably not, given that you are acquainted. Lucky for me, at any rate. A steward pointed me in the direction of your rooms, and I am glad to find you in.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh—no! Nothing of the sort,” he said hastily, hands up. “There is to be a small gathering tonight in the smoking room, and I thought that the pair of you might be interested in joining. W. T. Stead will be there; it is his idea, actually. It will be just before midnight, if you should like.”

“Stead...?” Holmes mused, and then glanced at me uneasily.

“Entirely up to you, of course. He was beside himself with glee when I let slip that you were our dinner companions last night. I told him I'd relay the message to you. Well! I hope to see you there.”

He slipped out as quickly as he came, and Holmes shut the door, locking it but not taking his hand from the knob, mulling to himself.

“That is a bit of a mystery. He did not even say what the gathering would entail. Do you plan on going?”

“I will,” he said, but his voice did not ring with certainty.

* * *

We walked around the promenade after dinner, stopping and devoting our time to watching the people out on the darkened deck. After our fill of that, we slipped into the Verandah cafe and pushed through revolving doors into a place almost too opulent to be just a smoking room.

Plush burgundy leather seats crowded around green tables interspersed throughout the space, with scattered ruddy coloured sofas clustered here and there. The walls were panelled in mahogany wood and inlaid with beautiful mother of pearl and various stained-glass windows depicting portraits of people and scenes of sunset or sunrise. Blue and red linoleum tiles provided a further splash of colour against the brown of the wood, and I mused over it before stepping toward the fireplace.

It burnt merrily away at coal, and the fixture itself was flanked by two bronze sculptures of rearing horses. Above the mantle sat a painting of a ship steaming across the water with two people in a boat, fishing.

“Plymouth Harbour,” I read the label, more to myself than anything else, and when I turned back, I found Holmes watching me. “What?”

He merely shook his head. “I'll fetch us some brandy.”

He wandered off to the bar, and I took in the mostly vacant room. It was nearing midnight, and it seemed most of the men of first class had better sense than we did, choosing to be a-bed or elsewhere. A few men played cards at two different tables, and another man leaned back in his seat, rubbing at his temple as he held onto a fat cigar, lost in thought.

“Hello!” a voice drawled out, and I realised that Futrelle entered without my notice. “So you have decided to come! And Mr. Holmes...?”

“Getting drinks,” I said, and the small man pulled a face.

“If I had come a little earlier, I could have had him fetch me one as well. Here! Let's push some tables together.”

“You don't think the attendants will mind that?” I wondered, but the writer had already pushed two tables together, struggling to drag one of the large seats from its original position.

“No, not so long as we put them back, I imagine. Isn't our comfort first and foremost in their mind? I don't imagine they want us shouting to one another, either.”

I assisted him, finishing in time for Holmes to return and press a glass into my hand.

“Ah. Futrelle.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Futrelle said with a small nod, gaze drifting to the men absorbed in their game of cards. “As no one else is 'round yet, I thought I might indulge.”

“I would not,” Holmes said breezily before taking a drink.

“A short one only, I assure you.”

“It would be very short indeed. At least one of those men over there is a sharp, and I have reason to suspect there might be a second as well.”

Futrelle pouted, brightened, and then clapped Holmes upon the shoulder in the span of a few seconds. “I always like to save money! I suppose I'll just get a beverage, then.”

I sat upon a long seat that Futrelle and I had pulled over, situated beneath a stained-glass image of a ship upon the sea, and Holmes joined me.

“I am surprised that you wanted to hear what Stead had to say.”

“He has done a lot of good work uncovering criminal activity. He even went to gaol for his efforts, if you will recall.”

“Well I do, but foremost in my mind is his strong tendency toward the spiritual,” I pointed out, and Holmes curled his lip and glanced away.

We stood again when Stead entered with three other men, engaging in a flurry of handshakes. Futrelle rejoined us, and we all took seats. Stead himself sat across from us, and he played with his bushy white beard, the corners at his blue eyes crinkling in amusement.

“I am quite glad to have you here, Mr. Holmes. And you, Dr. Watson. I think there are a great many similarities in what we do.”

“What we did,” Holmes said placidly, staring down into his drink.

“You might have sought the embrace of retirement, but I do not. My pen never rests.”

“The work you did with your “Maiden Tribute of Babylon” was remarkable. A lot of good came from it—your efforts helped to raise the age of consent, even.”

“I could not abide the thought of people peddling children's bodies as though they were little more than fruit to be sold in a stand. And the doctors who encouraged and aided it—despicable. But that was so long ago,” Stead smiled, a hint of melancholy playing about his face. “Nearly thirty years past, now.”

I thought of cases solved decades ago, of people we had helped who had passed on in the interim. I was jarred from memories when Stead spoke again.

“A thing I find more fascinating, however, is the link between ourselves and the deceased,” he said, and I glanced at Holmes. The man possessed the same expression as he had a moment ago, but I knew innately that he did not wish to discuss this topic.

“Have you often gone to mediums?” one of the men who arrived with him asked.

“I have. In fact, I began “Julia's Bureau” after coming into contact with a deceased journalist—Julia herself. What it does is we have women mediums who are set up as a sort of telephone system; you speak to them, they relay a message to the dead, and then the dead will have an answer for you that the medium can then deliver to you.”

“What stops the women from simply fabricating a message—whatever the person wishes to hear?” Holmes asked, leaning back in his seat and tapping the fingers of his free hand upon the arm of the furniture. “Some fellow comes in to speak to his brother John, and the woman medium says that John loves him and is with him always. It is the work of a moment to come up with something trite to say as a form of comfort.”

“I lost my son Willie when he was young just five years past,” Stead said, and Holmes blinked.

“My condolences,” he said softly.

“I tell you with certainty that I have seen him.”

“People believe what they wish to believe,” Holmes said evenly.

“I have friends who say that he has materialised in front of them.”

“They are hoping to sooth you, although I cannot say how such words would do anything but provide you with more agony.”

“I feel him next to me at times.”

“And I tell you that your son is dead in the ground and nowhere else.”

“Holmes!” I said, aghast, and Holmes cast his gaze elsewhere, frowning heavily. Futrelle shot me a glance, but he seemed excited by the back-and-forth rather than mortified.

Stead held his hand up, unshaken by Holmes's words. “I have met more than my share of criticism.”

“Fairly earned. These people play upon the sorrow of others to earn their coin and have an entire system set up. Information that 'no one else could know' is more easily obtained than you might believe.”

“So you think that this is it?” Stead said, gesturing about himself. “What of you, Futrelle?”

“I think I would prefer to let the both of you settle this yourself,” he said, chuckling. “Either way, I'll offend one of you, and I cannot decide which would be worse.”

“Spineless,” snorted one of the men gathered with us as he tipped ash from his cigar into a dish.

“And yet I do not see anyone else offering up their opinions,” Futrelle said with a shrug, rising. “Anyone want more drinks? I'll fetch 'em.”

Holmes and I both nodded to him, and he ambled off to get more brandy, taking our empty glasses with him.

“So you believe that all we have is here, on earth, in this moment? That if we die, we are left to become dust and there is nothing more for any of us?”

“I make my decisions based on what is given to me,” Holmes said neutrally, and Stead smiled, leaning forward in his seat.

“That is not what I asked you. I asked whether you believed there to be life after death.”

“Then I must say that I do not. I have not been given any evidence to prove a consciousness—or existence of any sort—beyond the life that we have here.”

“But I have,” Stead argued, and Holmes gave a tiny shake of his head.

“I think that you have suffered sorrow—tragedy—and that you are willing to believe anything that might afford you consolation. There is a difference between blind credulity and actual evidence. If you look for a pattern, you will believe that there is one, regardless of whether it is true or not.”

“What of you, Doctor?” Stead wondered, and I quite literally squirmed on the spot.

“I refrain from answering,” I said quickly, to the laughter of the men that had accompanied Stead.

“Boo! That's not an answer,” Futrelle said, having returned to hear Stead's question. He held a drink beneath my nose, and I took it gratefully.

“At least I did not dash off when asked,” I shot back, and Futrelle smiled, shrugging.

“Fair enough. Mr. Holmes—your drink.”

“Since you do not seem so keen to debate the existence of an after-life, what if I tell you a story instead?” Stead wondered, plunging into his tale before anyone spoke for or against the idea.

“The Princess of Amen-Ra lived nearly two millennia before Christ himself, and when she passed, they placed her in a beautiful wooden coffin, which was then hidden away in Luxor, along the banks of the Nile. There she remained for centuries, untouched and largely forgotten.

“Roughly thirty years ago, four Englishmen had chance to visit Egypt. At some point in their travels, they were presented with the lavish case that contained the remains of the Princess. These men were wealthy, and given the opportunity to purchase the coffin, they did so. Who would be the lucky one to own such an exquisite thing? The only fair way to settle it was lots, and the winner paid several thousands of pounds, ordering that his prize be delivered to his hotel. Afterwards, the man was spotted heading into the desert, and no one saw him again.

“The following day, an Egyptian servant accidentally shot one of the three youths, wounding him so badly that his arm had to be removed. The next of our unlucky foursome returned home and discovered that his bank had gone belly-up and he had lost everything. The last fell ill, could no longer retain his job, and was reduced to selling matches in the street to survive.”

Holmes snorted. “A series of misfortune, I give you that.”

“The coffin made its way to England, death and destruction trailing in its wake. A businessman in London procured it, and three of his family were injured in an accident upon the road. After his house caught fire, he wished to be rid of it, and gave it to the British Museum.

“Even in the hands of the museum, the curse of the mummy did not cease. The truck that was carrying it reversed suddenly, pinning someone. Inside the museum, one of the people moving it broke his leg. Another dropped dead with no cause, no warning.

“When they settled the Princess in her new home, the museum fell into chaos. At night, staff could hear thumping upon the casket,” Stead said, leaning forward and glancing about himself, rapping upon the table with both fists. “They could hear wailing—screaming, as though someone were trapped inside. They checked, but all that lie waiting was the mummified corpse of the long dead Egyptian royalty. Exhibits that sat in the same room were cast about in disarray, thrown to the ground or strewn across the room during the night. One watchman died during his duty, and the other quit, terrified the same fate awaited him. People tasked to clean would not approach the casket, and when a visitor waved a cloth at the Princess's face painted upon the coffin, mocking, his son took ill with measles and perished.

“The museum suffered for this, and moved the coffin to the cellar. Away from people, it could do no harm. It took less than seven days for one of the men that moved the coffin to fall deathly ill, and the man who orchestrated the transfer lie dead at his desk. Journalists discovered what was happening, and one took a photograph for a story he was to run about it. When he developed the picture, a ghastly, twisted face stared back from the coffin, and he went to his home, locked himself in his bedroom, and put a gun to his head.

“The museum parted with it, and the private collector misfortunate enough to acquire it found themselves in the same position as all before it. They put it into an attic, thinking that would be enough to quell the temper beyond the grave.

“Madame Helena Blavatsky—an expert on the occult—was invited to the home. The moment she stepped in, she could not stop trembling, and she searched the house top to bottom to discover the source, locating the Princess of Amen-Ra stuffed away in the attic.

“The owner asked the woman to help him—help him be rid of the malevolency that befell his house. Could she not exorcise it? She could not. Evil remains forever; there is nothing one can do save to rid themselves of the object in question. No one would take it from him, however. The string of deaths were known to every museum—who would wish to accept an item that had killed twenty people in less than a decade?”

“I have heard nothing of this,” Holmes said, and I did not think that necessarily constituted a false story. “And I think it absurd to believe that a coffin could cause the deaths of handfuls of people.”

“It was not the coffin that caused the deaths,” Futrelle piped up, and when I frowned at him for stirring the pot, he merely winked at me. “It was certainly the curse.”

“There is no such thing as a curse,” Holmes said stiffly. “Curses are meant to ward off superstitious people with the threat of violence and death—and apparently they do a marvellous job at it.”

Stead laughed, relaxing in his seat. “I have often times been implored not to tell this story for the bad luck that it brings.”

“And it's the thirteenth! It's after midnight now!” Futrelle cried, glancing at the pocket-watch upon his chain. I shivered as he replaced the watch into his pocket. “I think you planned this, you fiend.”

W.T. Stead tsked. “I started it the twelfth, not the thirteenth. We should be fine.”

Holmes rolled his eyes, finishing the drink in his glass before speaking. “Obviously. Telling a story will not rain doom upon us. If something happens, it will happen regardless, not because we invoked the name of a long dead Princess of Egypt.”

One of the men that accompanied Stead put out the remnants of his cigar in a waiting tray. “He's no fun, is he?”

Stead smiled. “I cannot speak for you, of course, but I had a diverting time even if our beliefs happened to clash.”

Holmes reluctantly agreed, and Futrelle proposed another round for the lot of us.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if y'all have noticed, but I'm shit at summaries and even worse at titles. Oh well!
> 
> So! What's up for this one in terms of notes? Let me see...
> 
> -I couldn't resist doing a Turkish Bath scene, and it works because the Titanic had one. Yay! The Turkish Bath was super duper rad. We're only just now finding out more about it because, again, colour schemes and the like were lost to us. But not any longer! They thought that it would have been obliterated upon the landing given where it was situated, the fragility of tiles and the like, plus they found some tiles in the debris path and assumed them to be from the Bath. But it's by and large intact; they found it! AMAZING! Imagine a room surviving for a hundred and fifteen years, tiles on the wall and all. I think I lost my train of thought here...but it's gorgeous. Check it out sometime, maybe.
> 
> -Oh BOY am I excited to be able to include Butt & Millet. These were real dudes, and I took direct quotes from Butt in terms of the Titanic and also referenced how Millet said the blood of war affected his painting. The fascinating thing with Butt is he kept having a premonition that he'd die to the point he told his sister where to find his effects if the ship sank, cancelled his plans until Taft made him go, said he wanted to see Westminster Abbey before leaving England because if he didn't, he never would, and actually drew up a will and had secret service members look over it. He was LEGIT. Did he live through the sinking...? I guess we'll see!!
> 
> -Another point involving Millet & Butt: there are oodles of rumours that the two were lovers. Millet was married with three children but.... They travelled together. Butt was a "confirmed bachelor". Millet was known to have had a long-lasting affair with a man that devastated him when they broke up. Newspapers wrote about their friendship. Millet and Butt lived together--Millet's wife lived in Italy, Millet and Butt lived together in DC. There's a monument to them--BOTH of them, together--in DC. Not even kidding. I wasn't going to just have them make-out or anything, but I at least wanted them to cameo here.
> 
> -W.T. Stead is FASCINATING. Fascinating. I figured Holmes would like him for his crime journalism. He DID help to bring up the age of consent because of his expose--they sold so many copies his publisher ran out of paper to print and they had to borrow from a rival paper. He was a feminist and hired women as staffers--I think a first. He invented the interview (no lie!). He was a FANATIC of supernatural stuff, especially with ghosts. And he really did tell this story at just the time that I stated. It was like a curse because most of the men who had listened to it that night died (I won't say how many because...spoilers); and when asked to tell it again, the survivor(s)? refused as it was like bad juju.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> See you next chapter!!


	4. I Merely Tolerate It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson reminisces about an old case and has a talk with Holmes

I slept well that evening despite having been subjected to Stead's story of the occult, and I roused and dressed myself. A knock upon Holmes's door with no response told me that he was not in, and as I had missed the bugle for breakfast in the saloon, I grabbed a quick bite in the Cafe Parisien.

I grew restless walking about the enclosed promenade, and so I moved to the outer deck. The temperature had dipped slightly from previous days, and a slight fog hung above the water. That did nothing to hamper two primly dressed girls as they ran back and forth, laughing and squealing as a maid stood nearby, watching with a protective eye.

A few yards away, I spotted Holmes speaking with two men that I did not recognise, and curiosity bade me approach.

“...I believe it an awkward layout in a Turkish Bath. Do you not agree?” Holmes said, and the taller of the two men stroked at his chin, thoughtful. He had a small blue notebook in his hand, pen at the ready.

“I can see your point, Mr. Holmes, but there is not much that I can do in those regards. I am on the look-out for cosmetic changes. The windows in the promenade, for example. Additional lamps in areas like the library. That sort of thing. Overhauling the Baths would be...an undertaking,” he said, voice lilting with a soft Irish accent, and then he caught my eye. “Ah! Halloa. Are we in your way?”

“Oh, ah...” I said, stumbling over my words in embarrassment.

“John Watson,” Holmes gestured to me simply, and recognition spread across the faces of the two men.

“J. Bruce Ismay,” the smaller moustachioed man said, offering his hand to me.

“Thomas Andrews,” said the other, shaking my hand in kind.

“I believe that I read about the two of you—you're the Chairman of the White Star line, correct?” I asked Ismay, who nodded. “And you are the lead designer for this ship, are you not, Mr. Andrews?”

“That I am.”

“The ship is done and built, but that does not mean there are never any small hiccoughs,” Ismay said, smiling nervously and glancing about himself. “Nor does that absolve us from any complaints that might arise from passengers.”

“Indeed. Mr. Holmes and I were just speaking about the Baths. I assume you must have a recommendation to add?” Andrews wondered, waggling his pen at me, a smile playing at his lips. He was a handsome fellow with a slender build, black hair slicked down with oil, and his dark eyes seemed to miss nothing as they scanned the deck and then landed upon myself.

“Lifeboats,” I blurted, and I could feel Holmes go rigid next to me.

The smile left Andrews's mouth, and Ismay rubbed at the lower portion of his face before curling the ends of his moustache fitfully.

“I only meant that...it does not seem as though there are so many—”

“Twenty,” Andrews said quickly, as though the number were tattooed into his memory.

I balked at the number, glancing at Holmes, who also seemed perturbed. “But...that seems quite low. How many people are aboard this ship?”

“Over twenty-two hundred,” Andrews said, just as sharp.

Holmes pondered over this for a moment. “So there would need to be at least one hundred and ten people per lifeboat to save every soul should something catastrophic happen.”

I rubbed my damp palms upon the thighs of my trousers, regretting my mentioning of such a topic. It dredged up the dream from the other night, and I did not wish to think of bobbing in an ocean and watching Holmes expire before my eyes.

“Yes. That thought occurred to me as well,” Andrews said stiffly.

“We have as many lifeboats on the sister ship Olympic,” Ismay argued. “Barring that, the ship is as perfect as we can make it.”

“Do you mean to say that she is 'unsinkable'?” Holmes wondered. “Many people believe it to be so.”

“I did not say that,” Ismay said defensively. “We have done what we can to ensure the safety of the people on this ship.”

“Excluding the placement of adequate lifeboats, correct? Do we have to share life belts as well? Take turns?” Holmes replied sarcastically, doing very little in order that he might endear himself to Mr. Ismay.

Andrews brought his notebook to his mouth, and I suspected that he did so in order to poorly hide a smile from view.

“Mr. Holmes—”

“With a ship of this size, one would expect there to be forty-eight lifeboats in order to hold the passengers,” Andrews said, interrupting his colleague. “We were initially going to do thirty-two, but Mr. Ismay did not believe that we needed that number.”

“Is it an issue of cost?”

“Sixteen thousand would be the additional amount needed to outfit the ship.”

“That does not seem much, considering the largesse of the Titanic,” Holmes said thoughtfully, and Andrews placed his pen and notebook into the breast pocket of his blue jacket.

“And it is not a kingly sum, no. The man that I previously worked with, Carlisle, thought that we ought to have sixty-four lifeboats on-deck.”

“You opposed?” I asked, and Andrews arched his brows.

“Me? Oh, no. Certainly not. I vociferously spoke in agreement, and watched as the number dwindled before my eyes. Sixty-four. Forty-eight. Thirty-two. Bruce authorised that we ought have sixteen regular lifeboats and four collapsible—so twenty.”

“We have met our requirement,” Ismay said, tone cool. “And the two of us have long since settled this dispute.”

“We have reached the bare minimum and nothing else. And my opinion has not changed since day one.”

“Sixty-four is a ridiculous number, and you know it! Four times the amount necessary for ships sailing at over ten thousand tonnes! People would be unable to walk upon the deck for all the boats. All we would hear is complaint after complaint!”

“You and I both know that rule is outdated,” Andrews said, matching the frost in Ismay's voice.

“It is preposterous to even discuss; nothing will happen to this ship, and fear-mongering will get us nowhere.”

“It was a matter of aesthetics, then, that stayed your hand?” Holmes asked, and Ismay huffed.

“Yes, and utility. As I said! You have seen the amount of space the boats need—now imagine if that number was quadrupled! I would never hear the end of it. I say again—why weigh the Titanic down when it is not necessary? It is like preparing a ten course meal when you've already eaten—a waste.”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance, and Ismay smoothed a hand against his forehead, drawing it back into his hair.

“This was certainly an illuminating conversation, but I have business to attend. I hope that you'll excuse me.”

We watched Ismay scuttle away, and silence fell for a moment before Andrews broke it, clearing his throat.

“Well. He is right, in a way. We have done what we can to ensure the structural safety of the ship, no matter how our opinions lie in terms of the amount of lifeboats. Do not worry yourself about it sinking; I would not be aboard it should I think it dangerous. I would not allow it from the dock if I thought even a rivet was out of place. I promise that to the both of you.”

Andrews left soon after Ismay, stating that he hoped that the remainder of our journey was a pleasant one, and Holmes hummed next to me, touching a finger to his mouth.

“There is certainly tension between the two of them,” I said.

“Mmm,” Holmes said. “I was out on deck the previous night.”

“At what time?” I wondered, recalling Stead's story.

“It must have been near three.”

“What on earth prompted you out for a walk at such an hour?” I cried, incredulous.

“My mind was cluttered,” he said simply, evasively, and I sighed. “I stood at the railing for some time, ignoring the chill of the night air, and I could have sworn that we sailed faster than we had during the day. I did make mention of it in my conversation to Andrews and Ismay. Ismay blustered that I imagined it, and I am certain that he lied to me. Andrews said that ships often perform speed tests, or prefer to sail faster at night than in the day in order to make up any lost time or indeed to save time.”

I shivered against a gust of wind that cut straight through me to the bone, putting my hands into the pocket of the long jacket that I had donned. “Mr. Andrews seems a forthright sort.”

“Yes,” Holmes said, and he smiled. “I quite like him. But...enough of that. I suppose we ought to head back inside.”

He offered his arm to me, and I took it, allowing him to wheel me around and lead the way back to the enclosed promenade.

* * *

After some time, I found my way to the Lounge on my own, marvelling at the carvings and woodwork that seemed lifted from the Palace of Versailles. Plush green seats were scattered throughout the room, clustered in fours around small tables.

I went to the bookshelf and picked up a book on a whim, musing over where I ought to sit. A massive marble fireplace made of oak and possessing a beautiful mirrored mantle caught my eye, but I chose against it. I stared out one of the enormous windows that offered a view of the gentle sea, captivated momentarily by the water, and then I settled into a seat and cracked the book open.

My mind did nothing to absorb the words in front of me, however. I must have sat for half an hour, reading and dutifully turning the pages when necessary, yet I could not give any sort of summary as to what I had digested in that length of time. I could not even make a safe assumption as to the genre of the novel!

“Pardon me,” a proud-looking man said, standing at my side. He carefully fixed his eyeglasses and smiled hesitantly. “Would you be Dr. Watson?”

I shut my book, realising it was futile to continue the attempt. “Yes, I am,” I admitted, frowning lightly. “Do you need some assistance?”

“Oh, no!” he said, raising his hands quickly. “Ida, you were right! It is him! She is a fan of the stories, you see. She thought you looked quite a bit like the man in the illustrations, and she had heard from Mrs. Astor that you were a-board...”

The woman sidled over to the man's side, and they exchanged a few quick words in what sounded like German. Both appeared to be nearing their seventieth year, and whilst he had lost the hair upon his head, her own black hair had only just started to streak with grey. He fiddled with the neat grey beard upon his face, gestured in the air slightly, and ended the conversation with a few additional words before turning back to me.

“My wife Ida. I'm Isidor—Isidor Straus.”

I took his offered hand and shook it, then indicated the empty seats at the table. “You might sit, if you like.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to intrude. I saw you reading the book but I thought I ought to say something. She pinched my arm awfully fierce to goad me into it,” Straus said, smiling crookedly when his wife shot him a look.

“I don't mind at all,” I said honestly, and the couple took chairs. Isidor Straus sat to the left of me, and Ida Straus sat directly across from me.

“Actually, if you like, I could order a drink for you? A sandwich?”

I laughed. “Really, I am quite content. But thank-you for the generosity. At times, I admit that I feel like a fish out of water. This is all quite...opulent.”

“We spent most of the winter in France. We never anticipated sailing upon the Titanic. The shortage of coal led us here instead of our original boat,” Mrs. Straus said thoughtfully. “It is a very beautiful ship, though. I have felt the wood-working in this room. It is so intricate and lovely, crafted by hand...”

“There are many people onboard who have never wanted for anything, whose parents, grandparents, great-grandparents were born into luxury beyond comprehension,” Straus said, fiddling with his gold watch chain. “Both myself and my wife emigrated. We worked for what we have. As did you.”

“Well,” I chuckled. “I would imagine there is a bit of difference between your fortunes and mine, if what I own might be called that. Truth be told, if I had any sense at all I would not have boarded this ship, or taken a ticket for a lesser class instead.”

“But that colours your experience!” Straus argued emphatically, placing his hands flat upon the little table. “You appreciate the grandeur that it has to offer, instead of turning your nose up because they offered quail and you would rather have had lamb, or the seats are green velvet in here and you wished that they were a teal leather instead.”

“I suppose that you have a point,” I conceded, and Mrs. Straus leaned forward, voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“Is Mr. Holmes onboard as well? I have heard nothing about him. Not that I do not appreciate your own company, of course!”

I bit back a smile at her hopeful expression and question. “He is, but he is like trying to catch mist in my hands; I could not tell you where to find him at the moment.”

“She will tire you with her queries, Doctor,” Straus said warningly. “Come, Ida—we'll leave him in peace. Let us go for a walk.”

“Isidor...” Mrs. Straus tutted, frowning.

“I do not mind the company,” I said, and Isidor Straus rose, shrugging.

“Well, then. I will see you at lunch, darling?”

She nodded, taking his hand, and they held one another in that fashion for a moment before he left, her fingers trailing down his palm until she lost contact with him. She watched him until he had exited the room, and then she turned back to me.

“Do you see him often? Mr. Holmes, I mean.”

I hesitated. I had written that Holmes retired to Sussex Downs a few years ago—that was true. I had written that I maintained my practice and stayed in London. That I had re-found the bliss of marriage. Those statements were less factual.

“Oh. Yes. Sometimes we don't see each other for weeks at a time, but we pick up pens now and again to keep in touch,” I lied.

“Has a case brought him out of retirement? Did he require your assistance?”

“It is the reason we travel to New York,” I said, feeling all the worse for every falsehood I baldly fed to the trusting woman. “But...it is quite a secret, after-all.”

The woman nodded fervently when I touched a finger to my lip to indicate that she not spread the news around to others. “I understand!”

“There are a number of stories that I have written down while in my service to Holmes. Many will never see the light of day because I do not think they are good enough to garner any attention, or perhaps because Holmes objects when I offer to have them published,” I said, eager to turn the conversation to an avenue where I would not have to tread in mendacity.

“That happens often? That Mr. Holmes would bar you from releasing stories?”

“I would not say often, but there are some complications that tend to arise. A few have to deal with governments, or people in high positions. Some are of a sensitive nature, and would compromise the clients who sought his assistance. Even with the stories that I have published, there are tales wherein I have changed their names and the locations to protect those involved who are innocent.”

The woman sighed wistfully, leaning back in her seat and fingering at the string of pearls that hung about her neck. “I wish that I might be able to see them. I cannot help it; I am curious, that is all.”

“I can tell you about one of the last cases that Holmes took up, if you would like,” I said.

“Oh, do!” she said enthusiastically, and I smiled, tapping my fingers upon the table.

“A man of a nervous disposition arrived at Baker Street, all a-quiver. It was quite late at night, enough so that one could call it morning and not be a-miss. Holmes had never been to bed, and roused me from my own as he thought I might like to be witness to what the man said. Let us refer to him as Williams.

“Williams belonged to a large family. The patriarch and matriarch of the clan had died some years ago, but they had left behind eight children, including Williams. All of them brothers. He sought out Holmes because within the course of a year's time, six of the siblings had died, each from an illness which produced symptoms that accelerated into death in the span of a handful of days.”

“That is quite terrifying,” Mrs. Straus said, but she looked excited rather than horrified.

“Williams stated that just prior to their untimely demise, the targeted brother would receive a letter. Inside, the message said the same thing each time—'You will pay for what you have done with your life'. The first brother thought nothing of it; a simple prank, or perhaps a notice delivered accidentally to the wrong recipient. Within twenty-four hours, however, he was vomiting blood. It progressed from there. He was in a stuporous state—weak, dazed, and complaining of thirst. He died upon the third night after receiving the letter, and it was believed his cause of death to be a failure of organs.

“He had sent a letter to the youngest brother detailing the strange message he received, and the youngest brother happened to be away on holiday so that he returned and read it having already been alerted to his sibling's unfortunate demise. He told it as a curious story to his family, a coincidence, perhaps, and nothing more, until the second-born brother received a letter with an identical message in it two months later. His symptoms followed the course of his brother's, and he succumbed after clinging to life for five days.

“Three weeks after the second brother was buried in the ground, the third brother received the same letter. Always superstitious by nature, he believed that he—and his siblings—suffered beneath a curse laid upon them. He went to church and wept his eyes out, pledging all the money to his name, begging for salvation and the like. If it was a curse that clutched him, then the Lord turned a deaf ear to his suffering. Within a handful of hours, the man was writhing and emptying his body in agony. It was not quite three days' passage of time before he passed beyond this world.”

“If they kept receiving the same message, why on earth did they open it? I should throw it away, or put it right into the fire,” Mrs. Straus said with a shiver, and I waggled my finger at her.

“Precisely the same question that I asked Williams when he quivered in the seat before us. He did not know how the first envelope was addressed, but each succeeding one came under the guise of something else. A bill of collection, or a note from an old friend. When they opened it, however, and read what awaited them, they realised to their horror that death now awaited them, standing just over their shoulders.”

“That is ghastly!” Mrs. Straus said, grimacing.

“The brothers began to drop like flies. Sometimes a month would pass between deaths, or it might only be a handful of weeks before they opened a letter and sealed their fate. It went down the line by age, and when only three brothers remained, they went to Scotland Yard.

“The Yard could do little to help them, given that there was no address, and the men staunchly maintained that they had done nothing to offend anyone, certainly not to such a point that an aggrieved party would murder an entire family for justice.

“Our Mr. Williams arrived, begging for our aid as his only remaining brother had received a letter that afternoon warning him of his doom. He wondered if we might do something to save him—to save his brother and himself—and after a long moment's pause, Holmes told him there was nothing that he could do for his only surviving sibling. I was cross with him for saying so, as he reduced the man to a mess of tears, but his words proved prophetic. Williams' brother died four days after Williams came to us.”

“And what of Mr. Williams? Did he die as well?”

I leaned back in my seat, ruminating over what had happened. “Holmes demanded all post from him, and Mr. Williams happily obliged, readily freeing himself from the horror. I wondered if perhaps one could be cursed, but of course Holmes would hear nothing of it. He wanted to open the letters that Williams received, and I objected strenuously to it.”

It had been quite a row between the two of us. Holmes scoffed at my tentativeness. Fine! A curse was outlandish, but what had killed an entire family? Objectively, we knew it to be a letter—in some capacity, in some way, that concise, blunt missive foretold death. I would not let him open it.

He would not hear my opposition, and insisted, digging in his heels. If he could save a life, by God, he would do so. But what of the cost of his own? Such a question prompted a snort and a hand-wave from him. He would be perfectly fine. Probably.

That did little to inject confidence within me, and so I declared that if he would continue on in such a fashion, then it would be with me at his side. That he would not have. He raised his voice at me, and I matched his pitch. I was a doctor! I could aid him from the very beginning should illness over-take him as it did the other men—as it would, given he courted the danger that they tried desperately to avoid.

We tabled our dispute, as he agreed that he would hold off on opening the letters that awaited him. Later that evening we had some wine of a marvellous vintage, and it was only belatedly that I realised the odd bitterness inherent in my own arose from the laudanum that Holmes slipped into it. He apologised even as I angrily slung slurred words at him that would have made a vicar blush, and he helped me to his bed, disentangling himself from me as I tried to make him stay.

When I woke hours later, I did not immediately remember what had happened, thinking at first that I fell asleep after the wine. A glass would not put me out, however, and when it all rushed back to me, I stumbled out of bed and into the sitting room.

Shouting and holding a hand up, Holmes halted me from taking another step. He explained that he sifted through the correspondence, worrying that he would not receive the death notice, and opened up a bill of service rendered to see the warning directly before his eyes.

When he spoke those words, it seemed as though the floor had dropped out beneath me, and I believed that Holmes could sense that, turning in his seat. Only his grey eyes were visible over a strange sort of mask that he had concocted, but I could see a kind expression lingering within them.

He reassured me that he did not believe that he would fall ill himself, and excitedly wriggled in his spot as he held the paper aloft.

“It was poison,” I said, blinking and chasing the memories away. “A toxin present in the letters in the form of a powder. Once the men opened them, and read them, they were exposed. They breathed it in, and it attacked their circulatory system, their organs—it was devastating, but wildly effective. Holmes analysed the paper, the writing, the envelope—all of it—and determined that it was most likely written by a man of low income but with a keen intelligence to have utilised it in such a manner without accidentally poisoning himself.”

“What happened to Mr. Williams?” Mrs. Straus wondered, and I sighed.

“We arranged that he might fake his own death. It was easily done; Holmes is acquainted with people who owe him a great many favours. A notice of death was printed in the 'papers, and Williams even procured a tombstone to place over an empty grave. He fled, and lived a few years until he put a gun to his own head.”

“Whyever would he do such a thing?”

“Holmes refused to speculate as he did not possess all the facts, but I supposed that he was haunted by the deaths of his brothers. What if he had implored them to do something sooner? What if he had told them not to open any of their messages? What if he endeavoured to seek out Holmes's assistance before the warnings threatened his own existence? But...I cannot say for certain.”

“You ought to publish it. That was exciting!”

I shook my head. “Everyone the story concerns is deceased, so there is no issue there, but it is a failure. We could not find who messaged the Williams brothers in the first place, nor what grudge led the man—or woman—to do such barbarous things.”

“But...he saved Mr. Williams. Should he not celebrate that?” Mrs. Straus pursed her lips, baffled.

“Certainly he does; it is why it was not a complete failure.”

“Have you missed it? Solving the cases? Is it why you have accepted the one you are on now?”

“Ah...one lives to recapture the past,” I remarked awkwardly, uncertain of whether I ought to lie or strive more toward the truth. “I had a great many happy moments when working, which might sound callous to say when many clients came to us out of some great tragedies. Certainly I miss it.”

Mrs. Straus smiled, opened her mouth to say something to me, then looked past me, puzzled. “I am sorry—you seem as though you wish to speak. Wait! Are you Mr. Holmes?! You look just like the images in the magazines!”

I turned in my seat, surprised, and found that Holmes stood a few paces behind me. He had his hand raised to reach out and then he clenched it shut. Something flickered quickly across his countenance, and he offered the woman a polite smile that fell short of his eyes.

“I am indeed.”

“This is Ida Straus. Her husband Isidor was here earlier; you missed him.”

“Oh, do join us! Dr. Watson is indulging me with stories—he is just as good at orating as he is at writing.”

“He must be rather relishing the attention; he does enjoy meeting people who adore what he puts down on paper.”

I rolled my eyes at his swipe, more than accustomed to it having heard it for decades, and Mrs. Straus tipped her hands together.

“There is no need to lurk, Mr. Holmes. You ought sit and join us!”

“Yes, Holmes. Pull up a seat—there's plenty of room here.”

“No. That's...not necessary. I just wanted to tell you that I would be in the gymnasium.”

“Oh! Well, I'll go with you—Holmes?”

He had turned on his heel even as I spoke, allowing his long-legged strides to carry him off at a quick pace.

It was odd for him to tell me where he was to be, and stranger still that he would essentially interrupt a conversation in order that he might do so. Barring that, I had the vague impression that something said or done had slighted him in some way, but what that might be, I could not say.

Holmes was often inscrutable on a good day.

“He did not seem to be very happy,” Mrs. Straus mused.

“Ah! No! He...it is hard to understand him,” I said, hastening to smooth over her first opinion of him even though she shared my own private thoughts upon the matter.

“Your stories do tend to give that impression. Have you anything more you can tell me? I have grown weary of strolling around the deck—this is more entertaining by far.”

“Well, I can tell you of a scorching August day in the year 1884,” I began, and she sat up, grinning at the promise of another story.

* * *

I found myself spending most of the day wandering aimlessly, staring out upon the sea or walking what seemed endless steps upon the deck. After I disengaged from Mrs. Straus, I went to the gymnasium but did not find Holmes there. I did not anticipate that I would; stationary bikes and machines to simulate rowing did not appear as though they would hold his attention.

Taking the steps, pausing for a moment to admire the clock and the cherub, I continued down, going round the back of the staircase to enter the reception room. The plush ruddy-red carpeting stretched the length of the room, leading toward the dining saloon. Some men and women had gathered in white-and-red seats, choosing to gossip and chatter before meal-time, and I heard a peal of laughter break out to my left.

Some fortune shined upon me when I noted Holmes speaking animatedly to a young man who looked to be roughly half his age. He had dark eyes that crinkled at the corners, and his black hair was smoothed back, comb-marks evident.

“Congratulations,” Holmes said, and the man smiled, puzzled.

“Thank-you, I suppose, but I must ask as to what I have done to earn any commendations.”

“Your upcoming nuptials,” Holmes said simply, and the man raised his brows.

“I...how did you know that?”

“'For Wallace on the occasion of our engagement from Maria',” Holmes quoted, and the man's face lit up as he laughed, flipping the violin in his hand to look at the metal plate upon the instrument.

“The fish-plate. I see.”

“And as you have no wedding ring adorning your hand...”

“Thank-you. For the congratulations, I mean. I should quite like to have the ring,” he said, smiling. “Wallace Hartley.”

“Sherlock Holmes. And that is John Watson,” Holmes said, giving no indication that he was surprised by my presence or that he had known that I had stood a few paces apart from them, merely spectating upon their interaction, too wary to intrude.

“Ah. I realise the meaning behind your quick eye now.”

“Might I play upon it? I would not ask, but I see that you are taking a break...”

“You want to play? Play on my violin?” he asked, and I thought he would reject Holmes's request for a moment before he performed a deep, sweeping bow, extending the instrument and bow to Holmes before he had risen. “How could I say no? It would be an honour! It is no Stradivarius, but it suits me quite well.”

“A shoddy violin in the hands of a master is still better than a work of art in the hands of a buffoon. ...Not that I am a master, nor you a buffoon.”

Hartley grinned. “I understand completely.”

Holmes plucked at it thoughtfully and then tilted his head, resting his chin upon it as he began to play. He drew the bow across the violin, starting a quick tune that settled into slow, sombre music.

The notes perturbed me.

I knew that Holmes preferred to play from his mind rather than any paper music, and I also knew that he would choose to play something that emanated from his soul over any song that he memorised. When I believed Holmes to be unfathomable, I looked to his violin as a barometer for his inner-workings, and what he played set me upon edge.

Holmes tended to play melancholic strains when a black mood would take him, or just drag the bow listlessly back and forth upon the violin, producing ragged sounds that were more akin to sobs than notes. When his music turned south in such a fashion, I often tried to lift him if I might to avoid him sinking any lower into his inner turmoil.

What he played now wrenched at my heart, bringing stinging tears to my eyes that I blinked away, swallowing hard as I watched him move, swaying and carrying the violin with him. I had heard him play in a similar style only once before—after I announced to him that I would take Mary as my bride all those years ago.

He swung back again, producing an ending sound that swelled into a crescendo and then abruptly dropped in volume, sinking and halting prematurely. He blinked, inhaled, and then sighed, relaxing as he offered the violin back to Hartley.

“I thank-you,” he said softly, and Hartley fumbled for words.

“I...of course. But that was...magnificent. Something of your own, surely? I have never heard it.”

Holmes merely smiled, patting him upon the shoulder, and then left his company.

“He is an odd duck,” Hartley murmured.

“You won't hear any disagreements from me. It was nice to have made your acquaintance, but you must excuse me,” I said, and the musician nodded at me, turning his attention back to the violin in his hands.

* * *

“Is something the matter?” I asked finally, and Holmes busied himself with the lobster dish in front of him.

We had a table booked for the a la carte restaurant, which was where Holmes led me after speaking with Hartley. He did not say anything apart from placing his order, and I could no longer wait for him to talk with me.

“Hm?”

I stopped cutting at my prime rib. “Back there, with Mr. Hartley. Your playing his violin.”

“I had the whim,” Holmes said, taking a sip of his champagne. “It was not as though I snatched it from his hands—I did ask if he would allow it, and he clearly was waiting for dinner to end for first class so that he might start playing for the guests again.”

“That is not what I meant,” I said, entertaining the notion that Holmes deliberately feigned his obtuseness on the subject. “It was...poignant. Stirring. ...Sad.”

“Music elicits a variety of emotion from the listener. It has well been documented that two people can hear the same piece and yet be moved in vastly different directions. I have a monograph upon the subject, but it is at home.”

“That, also, is not what I meant,” I sighed, realising that I would not gain any ground with him.

“There is a woman waving at you,” Holmes said nonchalantly, speaking almost to his food rather than to me. “It seems you command their attention without effort.”

“Stop,” I said, and a smile tripped across his face even if he did not look up at me. I noticed that he told the truth, however; a woman I did not recognise waved to us from several yards away. She picked up one of the yellow floral seats of the restaurant and carried it awkwardly to where we sat, placing it down and putting her hands on her hips to survey her efforts.

“Hello there, fellas. Oh! Thanks for that,” she said to the waiter who had carried her half-eaten plate of food and glass of wine over in her wake. “Mind if I join you?”

“I...” I said, startled, and the American sat down as though I had asked her to do so.

“It gets lonely dinin' on your own, right? Right. So I thought I'd barge in here. How about that? Do you want to play a sort of game?”

I looked at Holmes, who raised his glass at her.

“What sort of game?” he asked, and she wriggled in her seat, raising a hand to her careful coif to assure a hair had not fallen out of place. She was probably around the age of fifty, but already I could see that she had a strange playful spark that made her seem more youthful.

“So! You know how everyone gossips on here, right? No? Well, they do. They haven't got anything better to do with their time, so they just spread rumours and chatter about the people around them. Don't get me wrong; doin' that sort of thing can be a lot of fun. But what I'm gettin' at is—I'd like to guess what the pair of you do for a living.”

“I...do not see how the two are connected,” I said, bewildered.

“Oh! One of the rumours I heard was that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was on-board. So I thought it'd be fun to try to do what he does.”

“I heard that he never guesses,” Holmes said, clearly amused and biting down on his lip to hold back a smile.

“Well, maybe he never does, but I ain't as smart as he is. What do you say?”

“Yes, what do you say?” Holmes said to me, and I rolled my eyes.

“My, it would certainly be interesting to see the detective's method applied to my life. I wonder what that would be like,” I answered dryly.

“Let me see your hand,” she commanded, and she took my left hand without any further warning, turning it this way and that. “The palm is fleshy. You have not known hunger for some time, if ever.”

“I would have glanced more at his midsection than his hand to recognise that, madam,” Holmes chirped brightly, and I shot him as venomous a look as I could manage under the circumstances as the woman continued to prod at me, feeling my fingers.

“No wedding ring—are you frightened that a woman might seek you out for your wealth rather than your heart?”

Holmes rested his chin upon his hand. “It is the main concern that haunts his dreams at night—you are quite good at this.”

I prised my hand from the lady. “Ignore him; he is being insufferable.”

“You must be an architect,” she said happily.

“No,” I responded, and she wilted slightly.

“All right. A...tycoon. Of oil.”

“No,” I said, and she tapped at her chin.

“An owner of a string of hotels.”

“No.”

“You inherited your wealth.”

“No.”

“You made your money on the fur industry.”

“No.”

“Diamond mining?”

“No,” I said, and she sank back in her seat with a huff.

“This lookin' at a man and knowing everything is tougher than I thought it'd be.”

“You are glancing at him as a man who has acquired his wealth through legitimate means,” Holmes said, leaning toward her and putting a hand to his mouth in order to speak a secret to her. “Cast your mind to seedier venues.”

“No,” she cried, thrilled at the idea. “Why, I never would have guessed!”

“You would not have guessed because he is lying to you. I am a doctor.”

“Oh,” she said, looking put-out that I was not the purveyor of opiates or manager of some run-down bordello.

“And he is Mr. Holmes.”

She slapped her hands flat upon the white tablecloth, crowing loud enough to garner looks from the nearest tables' patrons. “No foolin'?!”

“No foolin',” Holmes repeated.

“I'll be damned,” she said, leaning back into her seat with a low whistle. “That's low, lettin' me carry on when you were him the whole time.”

“Would you have done differently?” Holmes asked, and she laughed.

“No, of course not. Fair enough. Well. I'm Maggie Brown, and I'd wager every penny to my name that you've heard of me from some snooty person already.”

“I...will admit you are correct,” I said, astonished, and she snorted, taking a gulp of her drink before directing her glass at me.

“Knew it. They just wanna complain that I ain't good enough to be here, eatin' what they eat, drinkin' what they drink, and sittin' where they sit. My money's not as good as theirs is because my husband—ex-husband, but a damn fine man, better'n twenty of these fellas slapped together—got it by workin' hard. Theirs is proper, passed down again and again.

“They'd say the same about you, but you aren't as 'crass' as I am. Plus you do somethin' that entertains them. If you worked with your own two hands and didn't have any fanfare about it, they'd be spittin' your name out of their mouths as though it was poison. That's why I sat with you.”

“Pardon? Why?” I asked, finding it hard to follow the pattern of her thoughts.

“Because you didn't look like the rest of 'em. I figured you had to be new money, or maybe that you weaselled your way in here. They have a way of sitting, almost like statues. So rigid! I hate it. It makes me want to sprawl over something just to counter-act it.”

“I...see.”

“But enough about that!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Tell me about the two of you. All the exciting stuff you did. You're a bit too old for that now, but I'd love to hear the by-gone days. If you don't mind. You don't, do you? Great!”

I looked to Holmes for assistance, but a tightness had gathered at the corners of his mouth. He lifted his glass to drink, choosing silence instead and leaving me to regale the woman.

She actually listened better than I anticipated that she might, and the longer I spent in her company, the more I warmed up to her brash exterior. It was refreshing to be in the presence of someone who did not act so composed, so stilted, and I found myself enjoying the conversation.

Holmes added very little, only responding when prompted, and I was surprised when he rose suddenly.

“I need some air. Mrs. Brown—it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same! It's been a delight speakin' with the both of you.”

I watched Holmes leave, torn. I wanted to accompany him—his demeanour had changed little from the morning and I believed it to have darkened, in fact, but it would be poor manners indeed to abandon the woman as well.

“He's not a really talkative man, is he?”

I hesitated. “He...it depends upon the subject.”

“You think I offended him?”

I laughed. “Madam, you probably endeared yourself to him more-so than any others upon this ship.”

“D'you know I was told off before for smoking a cigar? Some little slip of a woman pulled a face, saying that she could not believe her eyes. I snapped back at her that I would not have to smoke in front of her if they let me in the smoking room—gents only, apparently—and she clucked she'd fetch a steward and have him force me to put it out. I told her where I'd like to put it out, and anyway, here I am now,” she said cheerily.

“I suppose you have not made a great many friends on this voyage,” I remarked, and she shrugged easily.

“I don't really care one way or the other. Some of the people on here absolutely hate my guts, I'm sure. The Astors are good people, though. Maybe they like me because they know I understand what it's like to get abuse. So what if the girl's half his age? What's it matter? Is he happy? Is she happy? Fine by me.”

“You are a remarkable woman,” I said, awed, and she reached out, patting me upon the arm.

“When someone like you says it, I know it's true. You wanna hear about a bar-fight I started once?”

* * *

After I parted ways with Maggie Brown, promising to find her again before the trip ended, I searched for Holmes. He was not out upon the deck, and as I bundled my jacket closer about myself, breath puffing out in front of me, I knew he had made a wise decision.

I returned inside the ship, and sought out his room. When I knocked upon the door, there was no answer, but when I tried the knob, I found it to be unlocked. I slid inside, shutting it quietly behind myself, and discovered Holmes seated at the little table. He rested his chin upon his hand, staring off into space, and when he realised I had entered, he blinked, flicked his gaze to me, and then glanced away again.

“We need to talk,” I said, leaning back against the door.

“Indeed?” Holmes said after a pause, voice low. “I assumed so as you came to me.”

“I do not have any problem.”

Holmes furrowed his brow and then smoothed it with a moment of clarity.

“What's wrong?” I wondered, and Holmes said nothing. I tried a different tack, leaving my sentry at the door in order to pull a seat up close enough to the man that I might as well be in his lap. “I know you well enough by now to notice when something is bothering you.”

Holmes looked away, still silent.

I sighed. “Do I borrow a page now from your book? Try my hand as Maggie Brown did earlier?”

“Watson...” Holmes said finally, but his words trailed off so that I continued.

“With the Strauses today, when you told me where you would be? You had not originally come to announce that to me, but what did you want to say?”

“Watson.”

“Your abruptly leaving dinner to get some air; you were quiet to the point I would have believed you timid if I did not know you.”

“Watson.”

“And—and the violin! I have only heard you play it in such a manner once before, when Mary and I—”

“Stop!” Holmes shouted suddenly, hopping from his seat and stalking to the farthest corner of the room, his back to me. I turned in my seat, aghast at his behaviour.

“Holmes! You are distressed—clearly—and I should like to know why!”

Holmes said nothing for a moment, and then he huffed out a quiet sigh. “I...when I retired to Sussex Downs, I thought it nice. Peaceful. A change of pace and place.”

“Is it not?” I wondered, lost at the direction that conversation had gone.

Holmes shifted in his spot, giving me a glance. “A good place to tend bees,” he paused. “You do not like bees.”

“I am not particularly fond of them, no.”

“And you like the hustle and bustle of the city.”

“It has its moments,” I admitted truthfully, losing my footing the more that we talked.

“You have enjoyed what you have experienced here, upon the Titanic? The people with which you have spoken?”

“Haven't you?” I countered. I stood, hesitated, and took a step toward Holmes.

“I...I did not take into account whether you liked Sussex Downs. There...is a difference between liking something and tolerating it.”

“Holmes, I—” I began, but he continued swiftly, gaining speed with each word spoken.

“You have mentioned the days of our cases often upon this trip—I have witnessed it numerous times and can only assume you speak in a similar fashion even when I am not present. You are undeniably happy when reminiscing, and I wonder if...if I might have made a misstep. I...would not wish to have you mired in a place that you do not feel is home. I would not keep you with me if it means misery on your behalf.”

“I speak of them because people ask me. Forgetting all that, I enjoyed that time spent with you.”

“Precisely.”

I stepped to his side, and he turned to face me. I sandwiched his hands between my own and squeezed lightly. “But do you think I miss being awakened at all hours of the night? Herds of children and strange men traipsing through the place? Mrs. Hudson taking my ear off over something you had done? Waiting up nights for you to come back, worried that you might not, terrified that I might not be able to help you in your hour of need?”

Holmes's expression softened. “I did not know that you fretted over me so.”

“You might have guessed; I am as besotted with you now as I was then.”

Holmes grimaced, tugging his hands free. “Stop, Watson.”

“I will not,” I protested, leaning forward to kiss Holmes's cheek. He pulled away, hand on my chest to stymie me.

“Being enamoured with me hardly translates to wishing to stay with me if you are of the opinion that the locality is dreary and dull.”

“I would follow you anywhere,” I said.

“Watson!” Holmes said sharply, and I smiled. “That is simply dreadful.”

I laughed, and Holmes allowed a small smile to briefly crack his patently faux, stern exterior. I brushed my fingertips against his shirt-front, and patted it.

“You love it, though.”

“I do not.”

“Secretly,” I insisted, and he kissed me instead of agreeing. I gripped his collar, stepping backward and pulling him with me.

I fell backward onto the bed, and Holmes climbed after me, positioning himself over me as I sat up upon my elbows.

“No,” he said. “I merely tolerate it.”

I rolled my eyes and tilted forward, pressing my forehead to his own. We remained so for a few seconds before I gave him a gentle kiss, which he broke as he began to undo my cravat.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see.
> 
> With the mystery story I made up (so lazily; I'm bad with mysteries--and yet I love them so! Go figure), the poison used I based on ricin. If you were wondering. Pretty potent, although nowadays they can help you recover with treatment dependent on when you see a doctor, but it is still used from time-to-time as a means of assassination. Wicked stuff.
> 
> So! 
> 
> -Isidor and Ida Straus were legit people, as are pretty much everyone I stick into this story (save Holmes and Watson, although if you ask certain people...). Isidor co-founded Macy's with his brother. Have you heard of that store? I figured maybe you had. He and Ida were ridiculously and utterly besotted with one another, unwilling to go without the other if they could manage it. When they had to be separated for x, y, z reasons, they would write devotedly to one another. So basically they were that old couple you see rubbing noses together and holding hands, cooing pet names at one another and saying how much they love each other that have been married for 40/41 years.
> 
> -Maggie Brown! She was a BOSS. ASS. LADY. She married for love, saying, "Finally, I decided that I'd be better off with a poor man whom I loved than with a wealthy one whose money had attracted me." And guess what? Her husband struck it rich in mining. You think that changed her as a person?! Absolutely not! She worked in soup kitchens to aid miners' families, she helped to found the Denver Woman's Club to help women with their education and just general aid via charity, she helped raise money for church, she helped to aid poor children and had a hand in establishing the first juvenile court, and about a million other things. She eventually ended up divorcing her husband, but said that "I've never met a finer, bigger, more worthwhile man than J.J. Brown.". She was an absolutely REMARKABLE woman and I can't speak highly enough about her. She might actually be one of the passengers you've heard of--but as MOLLY Brown. She was never actually called that during her life but rather went by Maggie, so that's what I've stuck with here.
> 
> -Thomas Andrews and J. Bruce Ismay. Ismay was the chairman and managing director of the White Star Line. A Big Fish. Thomas Andrews was the Titanic's Chief Designer. Ismay really DID think that the life boat thing was absurd--they were meant to shuttle passengers to another vessel, not any long term thing. He met the code (even though ships could now hold FAR more people than when it was first enacted), and people would grouse about deck space otherwise. Andrews did NOT think there were enough life boats, and was pretty pressed about the issue. Do I think they would have argued in front of passengers? Prooobably not. That's why artistic license is so great! I'm also immensely fond of Andrews, so that bias is bound to bleed through here. Whoops.
> 
> -Speaking of BIAS--Wallace Hartley! The violinist for the band! A real dude! I adore him to an absurd degree! His violin plate really did say that, by the by. I just wanted to have him in it, and I figured that he and Holmes could bond over their love of the violin. Um...anything else I say might be spoilery, so I'll end it here.
> 
> The next chapter is the end, gosh! Went by so fast, right?! I'll post it Thursday. I like that installment the best of the five--but will you lot?! I guess we'll just have to wait and see!
> 
> See you next chapter!


	5. No Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Titanic strikes the iceberg and mayhem begins.

I roused early and found Holmes still in bed, back to me.

“Sleeping in, are you? Getting lax in your old age?” I teased lightly, and when he did not respond to me, I wiggled closer.

“Mmm?” he muttered muzzily, rolling in order to face me. He covered his mouth as he yawned, squinting one eye shut.

“You're still in bed.”

“Good observation, Watson. Well done. Never have I been more proud—”

“Stop,” I said, and his shoulders shook lightly with silent laughter as he buried his face against my chest. “Do you not plan on attending the church service?”

“I did not know that there was to be one.”

“It is Sunday.”

“I did not know the protocol on such a ship. But...no.”

His answer was not a surprise to me; I was more shocked when he recited anything from the Good Book at all.

I started to stir, but Holmes held firm to me, hiding his face in my right side.

“You need not go either, you know.”

“I know I do not need to do anything, and yet...”

“Stay with me,” he implored, voice low.

“That is most unfair,” I complained, and I knew that he smiled. “But...I must resist.”

He grumbled something unflattering when I prised his hands from me, and he rolled back over again, pulling the blankets up snug around him.

“We can have a late morning tomorrow, if you like,” I said, and when he made a noise of agreement, I leaned forward to plant a kiss at the base of his neck before sitting up in the bed.

* * *

I myself had gone without a church service for more years than I cared to admit, and I arrived earlier than most, settling into a seat on the end but toward the middle section. The saloon had been utilised for a congregation, and when I heard someone shout my name, I turned back to the doors.

“Ah! Mr. Astor, Mrs. Astor. Good-morning.”

“You don't mind if we join you, do you?” Madeleine Astor asked when they arrived at my side, and I stood to allow them entrance to the row as answer.

“I see Mr. Holmes is not here—or, I rather assumed he would sit with you,” Mr. Astor said as he sat next to me with his wife on his other side.

“He is not much for ceremonies and services like this.”

“I cannot blame him,” Astor said, giving a bit of a shiver beneath his dress jacket. “There's a draught run rampant in this ship. I was loath to climb out of bed at all, truth be told.”

“Indeed. We went for a morning walk, as we have done every day upon this ship, but we could not stomach the cold for very long at all,” Mrs. Astor said with a frown, fidgeting her gloved hands together.

“Certainly different from a few days ago. I supped in the Cafe, and they rolled the windows down so that we might take in the sea air. It was pleasant and made for an enjoyable dining experience,” I added, and Astor shrugged.

“I suppose that's early spring for you; the bite of winter always lurks.”

We watched the first class passengers slowly filter into the room, some chattering in little corners rather than immediately taking a seat, and at one point I noted Millet and Butt enter together, returning the jaunty waves they afforded me.

When the room collected all that it would, a man strolled to the front. His bearing commanded respect, and I recognised him after spotting him here and there upon the ship. It was the captain—Smith—and he smoothed a hand to his short-cropped white beard, clearing his throat before directing us in a sonorous voice to pick up the sheets that would guide us through the service.

I admit my mind did wander, although I shuffled through the pages and followed along. Whenever we reached the last hymn, however, I was seized with a cold uneasiness.

“'Eternal Father, strong to save,  
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,  
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep  
Its own appointed limits keep;  
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,  
For those in peril on the sea!'”

I mustered through the rest of the song, glad to be done with it when the last note rang out in the large space. People began to talk amongst themselves again, and many smiles were present on the faces of those around me.

“What a grim choice of a song,” Mrs. Astor said, brow furrowed as she held the program in her hands.

“I think it a pretty little tune,” Mr. Astor disagreed, and his wife shook her head.

“It might have a nice sound to it, but to sing it as we did—gives me the shivers.”

“Well, my dear wife,” Astor said, patting her affectionately upon the arm. “You need not worry. We have called out in supplication as we churn through the sea, and surely we must have been heard. I would have been disconcerted had we decided to forgo it altogether.”

“I suppose you're right,” Mrs. Astor responded, appeased by her husband's words.

* * *

After a heavy dinner, Holmes and I adjourned to the Smoking Room, Futrelle trailing after us.

“Have either one of you made any wagers?” he asked, gesturing toward us before placing his cigar to his lips.

“In regards to what?” I wondered as Holmes smoked at his cigarette, remaining silent.

“There are a few men running bets as to when this ship will arrive in New York.”

“We still have three days.”

Futrelle shrugged. “That is not popular opinion. The crew have been letting this ship test its rapidity; there are daily pools as to what the top speed will be.”

“This is the first time that I am hearing of this,” I admitted, leaning back in my seat with a frown.

“I am not surprised,” Holmes said, tipping away some ash into a tray. “I thought we were moving quickly the night before last.”

“I have lost more money than I have made on these wagers,” Futrelle admitted ruefully before smiling. “They think that she will beat Olympic's record.”

“It is of no concern to me what speed the Titanic takes,” Holmes said, indifferent, and Futrelle laughed.

“Maybe not for you, but there are people on-board with more money than sense who are struggling to set their affairs in order should they find themselves in New York before anticipated. I have heard an absolute flurry of wireless messages have been sent out today.”

“I think it remarkable that we are able to communicate at all with people on land even as we sail,” I said, and Futrelle nodded.

“Not without some slips, however. The wireless broke down yesterday.”

“How do you know that?” I wondered, and Futrelle snorted, rolling his eyes. He took a puff at his cigar and exhaled the smoke before answering.

“I have heard complaints here and there. Imagine! Not being able to snap your fingers and have someone do precisely as you would like. It is as though the world crumbles beneath your feet.”

“Would you be pleased should we break land before we are scheduled to do so?” Holmes asked Futrelle, who pondered the question.

“I don't have to scurry and worry about board meetings or clients—I suppose I will miss the luxury, the novelty of it all, but I shall be glad to swap out water for dirt. Any longer and I will get a bit stir-crazy.”

Holmes said nothing in response to this, and Futrelle tilted his head back against the seat.

“At least all of this shall serve for a neat story—I took a trip on the Titanic's maiden voyage,” he said quietly, and he cast his gaze to the stained glass of the wall opposite to where we sat.

* * *

“I regret coming out here,” I gasped out, shuddering. The warmth I inherited from the Smoking Room fled the moment I stepped out onto the deck, the chill of the air hitting me like a sharp punch.

“You insisted upon it,” Holmes said languidly behind me, catching up to me and bumping his hip into my own needlessly, tipping his head to rest against my shoulder.

“I feel as though I have done nothing but eat and sit. I will have gained seven pounds before we reach New York City.”

“Five.”

“Don't,” I said, and when he laughed, I smiled. “There is no one out here but us, it seems.”

“No one will have entertained such a foolish notion as you, Doctor.”

“And yet I find you out here with me,” I said, feigning surprise.

“You raise a compelling point,” he said, and he peeled away from me, spinning upon his heel as though to return to the warmth of the ship. 

I caught his hand, entwining my fingers with his, and he squeezed me lightly when I did, pulling me after him as he began to walk upon the deck.

“If we stay immobile for too long, I am afraid we shall freeze to the spot.”

I glanced over the railing at the water. It stretched on like a flat black sheet, still and calm. There was no moon in the sky, yet stars were scattered across the heavens as though flung by the handful, a bright contrast to the blankness of the sea beneath them.

“A beautiful night,” Holmes remarked, and when I laughed, he offered me a questioning glance.

“If you had hesitated a moment, I would have said the same thing.”

“You have rubbed off on me in a most dreadful manner,” Holmes groused with no real heat, rounding back on me in order to take my other hand in his own.

“An improvement, surely,” I said, and Holmes scoffed.

“Pah,” he grumbled, releasing one of my hands and turning in the direction that we had been walking. He went rigid, and he gripped my left hand fiercely.

“...Holmes?”

“What...?” he began, trailing off, and I followed his gaze.

A behemoth rose out of the water, a shapeless, shadowy mass. We approached it at a quick clip, and I thought for a moment that we would hit it directly. It grew in size, and I was aware that the ship began to turn in order to avoid ramming into it.

Thoughts of the first day upon this ship returned to me, and I could see in my mind's eye our slow manoeuvring to narrowly miss colliding with the smaller boat. Beneath my feet, it felt as though the ship stuttered and stumbled.

The massive object loomed, and Holmes and I both stepped reflexively back as we passed it. The light from the ship illuminated it, revealing it to be a towering iceberg.

A woman burst out onto the deck, coat trailing behind her. “I felt a series of bumps and I thought...” she fell silent, and stood with us, watching as chunks of ice cracked and broke from the iceberg, tumbling onto the deck. Holmes bent to heft up a hunk of ice the size of his head.

“A close one,” I said, and Holmes frowned.

“Hm.”

The woman held her hand out, and Holmes gave her the piece that he had retrieved.

I saw that a crew member had joined us without my notice, and I directed a question to him. “What was that?”

“We struck an iceberg,” he said simply, and the woman dropped the ice, hands covering her mouth in astonishment as her eyes widened.

“What?!” I shouted.

“Everything is fine,” he said quickly, tone placid.

“Will we be OK?!” the woman cried, and the crew-man held his hands up hastily.

“It's nothing, nothing at all,” he said, voice soothing. “Everything is fine. The ship is protected against this sort of thing, I assure you. It's nothing.”

I suddenly felt hands upon my shoulders, and realised Holmes had grasped me, wheeling me away from the woman and the crew-member, directing me instead to go back into the ship.

“Go back to your room,” Holmes said the moment we had entered the warmth, and I rubbed my numb hands together.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Holmes said, employing an authoritative tone that I rarely witnessed from him.

“And what are you planning to do?”

Holmes smiled, surprising me. "Find you peace of mind.”

I shook my head. “I will go with you and fetch it myself.”

“Do you not trust that I would tell you the truth?”

I snorted. “Have you forgotten the numerous times you have withheld information to me in the past? Openly told me a falsehood?” A quick look of hurt passed across Holmes's face, and I sighed, slouching. “Of course I trust that you would not lie about something so important, but I feel as though I ought to do something rather than leaving you to wander off.”

“Just do as I ask,” Holmes said, gripping my arms for a moment and staring into my eyes. “I'll seek you out as quick as I can.”

He returned to the deck, giving me one last glance before disappearing from sight, and I pressed down my reluctance to obey his order.

I returned to my room as requested.

* * *

I had slept better—but not well—in Holmes's room the night before, and I found it difficult to stay awake even with the minor excitement of a scrape with a hunk of ice.

I dozed, and a sharp rapping at my cabin door roused me from my slumber. I recalled then that Holmes promised to return with news, and judging by my groggy and disoriented state, I had not been asleep for long.

When the knocking continued, however, I recognised that it was not Holmes, and I crossed the room to open the door.

A steward met me, hands full with a white lifebelt. “Here, sir. I'll help you put this on.”

“W-what?” I asked, thrown for a loop. “I've spoken to an officer and he said everything is all right—”

“It most certainly is, sir, but we take every precaution available to ensure the safety of those onboard. I will assist you in putting this on.”

Surprised, I allowed the man to help fit the altogether bulky and cumbersome item upon my person, and when he had placed it upon me, I pulled it down as far as I might in order to minimise the cloying feeling it produced.

“Head to the Lounge, sir. You will be informed of the proceedings there and won't have to wait outside in the cold.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, unwilling to break Holmes's instructions. The steward did not pause to listen to me, however, and I followed him out into the hallway, watching him continue to the next cabin.

* * *

The lounge itself was utter chaos. Men and women chattered amongst themselves until the level of volume inside the room had risen to a dull roar. Some women were clothed in beautiful gowns and bedecked with dripping jewellery that must have cost hundreds of pounds, and others wore night-clothing. An older gentleman drifted past me in a night-gown, cross and complaining to no one in particular that he had been woken for a bunch of foolishness.

The strains of a jaunty tune caught my ear, and I followed it through the crowd to find the musicians had assembled. I had only ever seen five of them together, yet eight had gathered, clustering into a corner and blithely playing. Some of the nearest women tapped their feet along to the music, smiling as it swelled.

Mr. Hartley allowed his gaze to drift over the people assembled around him, and he blinked when he glimpsed me. He smiled widely, noting his recognition, but I could see that he looked past me.

For Holmes.

The music presently ended, and he turned to the men with him, whispering something to them as they began to prepare for a different song.

“What are you doing?” I could not help asking, and he offered me a grin.

“Playing the violin fairly well, I imagine,” he said dryly, laughing at my expression. “If you mean as to why we are here, at this point in time...we were told to play. That's what we'll do.”

He lifted his violin back to his chin, and the band broke out into a brassy ragtime number. A woman behind me squealed happily at its commencement, and I backed away to allow others to crowd closer should they wish to do so.

Forcing us out of bed at such an hour—after midnight!—and instructing that we don lifebelts seemed to me to speak of peril. And yet we were allowed to group here. And yet the band played.

I could not make sense of it.

“Well. At least it will give us something to talk about tomorrow,” a woman next to me said to her lady companion, who laughed.

“I cannot wait to send a telegram back home to Mother in the morning. Imagine her face when she reads they made us put these on! It's all a lark.”

A hand fell upon my shoulder, and I exhaled in relief upon turning.

“Holmes! Thank-God. I was starting to really worry; where on earth have you been?!”

“Unimportant,” the man said dismissively, and he flicked his gaze up and down me. “I am glad to see that you have donned a lifebelt.”

“I was instructed to do so.”

“Ever a faithful, obedient soldier,” Holmes replied, smiling, but it did not reach his cool grey eyes.

“And I see that you are not wearing one,” I said, and Holmes waved his hand dismissively in the air.

“I do not need one.”

“Yes, you do!” I countered, and he dug in his heels.

“I am a strong swimmer!”

“I do not care if you could cross the ocean in a single stroke! You will put one on even if I have to force you to do it myself.”

“You need not have leapt immediately to threats,” Holmes pouted, yet he agreed to my demand without further argument, allowing me to lead him back to his room. We waited for the steward, who repeated his bland statements.

We returned to the lounge and almost literally ran into Mr. Andrews, who possessed an expression as dark as a storm-cloud.

“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” he said politely, but his tone was stilted. He fiddled with the little notebook in his hands, turning it over and over between his fingertips anxiously.

“It is grim, correct?” Holmes asked, and I was startled both by his question and the calm manner in which he presented it.

“We have only a handful of hours left to us,” Andrews said, frank in tone and response.

“Until what?” I wondered, aware of how painfully stupid I sounded. It seemed beyond comprehension, however. How could something change so quickly, and by the force of something so inconsequential as a block of ice?

“Watson,” Holmes sighed, and I blushed.

To his credit, Mr. Andrews chose not to comment upon my question. “Gentlemen. The Titanic possesses sixteen watertight bulkheads. Think of them as rooms in a house, divided up in successive chambers one after the other,” Mr. Andrews said, gesturing as he spoke. “They serve multiple functions, including structural rigidity, but one of the most important, I dare say, is aiding a vessel in the event of calamity.”

“And what of the bulkheads?” Holmes pressed, and Mr. Andrews switched his notebook to his left hand, pinching his brow with his right before speaking again.

“A ship can take on water and still manage to sail on without sinking. The...difficulty here is that our bulkheads do not extend to the top of all the decks, nor are they sealed at the top. If water was to come in to four—and only four—we can stay afloat. We can survive if only two are completely flooded, however.”

“I know that the ship has taken on water,” Holmes said, and I wondered as to how he had reached such a conclusion.

“It has,” Andrews confirmed uneasily, rubbing at his neck.

“To which bulkhead?”

“The iceberg has opened the ship along the side; there is too much damage. We have already inundated five compartments in such a short time...the squash court is completely under as we speak...”

I swallowed, horrified, but Holmes's expression remained one of neutrality as he posed his next question.

“I assume you have wired for assistance?”

Mr. Andrews hesitated, glancing at the women near us. Their attention was ensnared by the band; I believed we could have said anything without them hearing us. “We have, but those that responded are leagues away. The Titanic's sister ship is sailing and has sent us a message, but she alone is more than five hundred miles from our position. I estimate that we have two hours—if that.”

I shivered at his dire pronouncement. “What are you planning to do?”

“In terms of salvaging this ship? Nothing. Nothing can be done at all. It is beyond hope. I...I can convince people to take to the lifeboats, though. I can attempt to convey it is imperative that they do so. I...you must excuse me, gentlemen.”

He hustled past us, and I glanced at Holmes.

“It will be like dominoes,” he said, holding his hand flat in the air. “Each bulkhead will fill with water. The fifth will spill over into the sixth, and then continue to bring in water, spreading to the next bulkhead, and the next.”

I watched as Holmes tilted his hand, the degree of verticality increasing, and I shut my eyes.

“Please,” I whispered, and he lowered his arm.

Without another word, he led me out onto the deck. Passengers had begun to realise the true excitement lie outside, and apparently believed that if they had to be awake, they might as well revel in it. The bite of cold sucked my breath away, and I squeezed tighter to Holmes's arm, drawing closer to him in order to stay warm.

“Do you feel that, Watson?”

It was slight, but I could immediately feel that the ship had begun to tilt to the right, as well as nose downward. If a child were to place a marble atop the deck, it would surely roll quickly toward the waiting sea.

“So soon?” I managed.

“You heard Mr. Andrews,” Holmes said, aloof, and a deafening boom startled me so that I clapped my hands to my ears.

Above us, the funnels consistently belched steam, and it sounded as if a handful of trains had all decided to leave the same station at once. Holmes said something to me, but whatever it might have been was lost in the roar produced by the dying ship.

Two officers near us attempted a conversation, and I could tell that they screamed at one another with little success, switching instead to a series of gestures, communicating instead by hand. They yanked the cover off the nearest lifeboat, and I was struck by the incongruity of their actions when placed next to those of the passengers.

The crew of the vessel worked at their task, faces sombre and hard, readying the small boats to be launched. At the same time, a group of men in various states of dress had procured a big slab of ice that happened to be rather circular in shape. Delighting over their find, they formed impromptu teams in order to play football, kicking it about the deck. I watched one man careen past, blocking the ice with his foot to prevent it from going overboard. His cheeks were ruddy, mist escaping his mouth as he laughed with his companions, booting the makeshift ball back toward them.

“What do you think of all this nonsense?” a voice asked to my right, and I realised that Mr. Astor and his young wife stood at my side.

“Perhaps they ought not be playing,” I said. I could not fathom engaging in a game while the ship was sinking—surely they did not realise the gravity of the situation? But why was no one informing them? Why did they let them carry on in their silly game as the ship dipped lower and lower beneath the water?

“No, no, no—that is a different foolishness in itself. I meant the lifeboats,” Astor said, nudging his chin in the direction of the offensive article. “Imagine entrusting your life to one of those and leaving the safety of the Titanic.”

“The Titanic is sinking,” Holmes said, entering the conversation.

Astor sized him up, and quickly dismissed him. “Rubbish. Patently so.”

“We have heard it from Andrews himself,” Holmes responded, and Mrs. Astor clutched at her husband's arm upon hearing Holmes's words.

Mr. Astor patted his wife's hand. “We have heard from the crew that there isn't anything to fear and that it is just a precaution. Why bother even going off the ship in order to row back and climb aboard? Look at the size of it! It looks ready to collapse in the wind, and then what? We'd be floundering about in the water like land-stranded fish. This is absurdity; we are safer here than in that little boat.”

Turning, Mr. Astor tugged his wife after him, apparently wearying of the cold night air. Holmes and I returned our attention to the lifeboat, now over the side of the ship and level with the deck.

“Ladies, this way!” one of the two officers cried into a bullhorn, waving his arm to entice women toward him. He might as well have tried to lure them into a pit full of snakes; no one stirred to his call, clustering instead back toward the warmth and safety of the ship.

“Put in the brides and grooms first!” someone near to us called, his hands cupped round his mouth. Upon his shout, I recognised that a good many of the people clustered around were young couples, doe-eyed and uncertain of the proceedings.

The two officers held a quick council, and the one with the bullhorn brought it to his lips once more. “Any passengers who would like to do so may get into this life boat. There will be no difficulty launching it as the sea is perfectly calm. Later, after we have had a chance to find out how much damage has been done to this ship, we will pick you up again.”

I leaned into Holmes so that he might hear me over the rush of steam. “Why on earth is he saying that? He must certainly know that the damage is extensive.”

“Panic, Watson. People might not realise it with this life boat, or the next, or the one after, but they will. He is trying to stave it off as long as possible. Imagine if he were to tell them right now that the ship is going under?”

“There would be a stampede.”

“Precisely, and I do not doubt that people would count the boats all the quicker for it.”

People reluctantly stepped forward, and one couple hesitantly moved as though to board and then changed their mind as one, laughing and moving away to allow others to take their place. The crew members helped to hand the willing down, and the boat collected not quite thirty souls before the fellow with the bullhorn called out once more.

“Are there any more ladies before this boat goes?” he shouted out, pausing. Although there were women in the vicinity, they stood back, ignoring his question. He waited a moment longer should they decide they wished to board, and then he waved his hand, ordering the boat to be lowered.

“You ought to have entered,” Holmes said, and I snorted.

“I am not a young groom.”

“He did not seem overly particular on that.”

“I did not see you accepting his request,” I pointed out, and Holmes frowned.

“I do not think that I could step in when there are others here that ought to go before me. Children and the like.”

The officer with the bullhorn shifted to the lifeboat next in line, gesturing to women that they ought to get in it. Those closest were taken by the arm and handed off to an officer who stood in the boat, and judging by the looks of consternation present upon the ladies' faces, they objected to the rough treatment.

A heavier set man pressed forward. “Allow me to kiss my wife good-bye!” he begged, and the officers stepped to the side, offering him the ability to see his wife one more time. The man leaned into the boat to give his affection to the lady and then tumbled in altogether, scrambling to get inside.

“I cannot leave you!” he shouted.

“Throw that man out of the boat!” the officer with the bullhorn roared, and he grabbed onto the man as did the crew-member in the boat.

“Stop! Please! Herbert!” the woman screamed, clinging to her husband even as they were forcibly separated.

“It seems his proclamation that there is a place for everyone is not entirely true,” Holmes murmured.

“But why?” I cried, watching as the man and woman both broke down into sobs. The lady was held back in the boat by an officer, and she struggled and writhed, screaming the man's name. He clung to the railing, straining to reach her, to touch her, to do anything at all. “There is room enough for him!”

“Here! Into the life boat. Come along, now. Quickly, quickly!” a reedy voice prompted, making itself known over the general din of chatter from the passengers spectating like myself and Holmes.

It was J. Bruce Ismay, and he grabbed at any of the women who roamed near enough to the boat, pressing them toward one of the officers attempting to lift the ladies to the crew member stationed in the small vessel.

After a handful of minutes of this, the officer upon the deck whirled on the small man, snarling, “If you get the hell out of my way, I'll be able to do something!”

Chastened, Ismay dropped his hand and scuttled away from the railing, face a clear crimson even in the night at his public rebuking. He shook his head, as if answering himself in some private conversation, and then immediately began his shouting once more.

“Get in the lifeboat! You must get in—please!” he implored, drifting near to any that he spotted. Most laughed in his face, echoing the sentiment that Astor had espoused, and stepped markedly away from him, tutting. A few mulled over his words and then moved—reluctantly—to the boat that awaited them.

He swanned over to us. “You must get—oh. Gentlemen,” he said, interrupting himself and fidgeting in his spot, uncomfortable.

“We have spoken to Andrews,” I said pointedly, and Holmes bit back a smile at my boldness.

Ismay's pale face blanched all the more. “I doubt Thomas told you a lie.”

“No. We understand the situation to be grave,” Holmes said, and Ismay dragged a hand down his face, moaning into his palm.

“This is a nightmare. This was never to happen. The lifeboats were to be used to ferry people from this ship to another in case of emergency,” he said desperately, wringing his hands together. “We did not need the additional life boats. We did not want the additional ones.”

“Andrews did,” I reminded him, and Ismay huffed at my words.

“Yes, well, I suppose I will carry the brunt of that guilt for as long as I may live—hours now, apparently,” he remarked bitterly. “Attempt to get into a boat, if you can manage it. You'll have more of a chance here with Murdoch rather than Lightoller. Murdoch will let in some men—Lightoller will not, no matter how you wheedle and beg. You there! Get into the boat! This ship is sinking!” Ismay wandered off to convince a young woman of the veracity of his words. 

People continued to shuffle into the boat, and once it had reached perhaps forty or so, the officer upon the deck grasped the one in the lifeboat by the hand, shaking it firmly.

“Good-bye, and good luck,” he said gravely.

The officer in the life boat gave a lopsided grin. “'Good-bye'? I shall be right back again.”

The one upon the deck said nothing in reply, merely releasing his hold and stepping back, gesturing for the vessel to be sent onto the sea. “That's enough before lowering. We can get a lot more in after she's in the water. Lower away!”

“This is foolishness,” I declared to Holmes, gripping at his arm tightly. “There are not enough seats as it stands to save everyone, and they are lowering the boats half-full, a third-full—or less!”

“I know,” Holmes said quietly.

“There is no one around to save those left behind! They are to die—and it is needless! And did you hear that—that fellow in the boat thinks he's coming back again! He doesn't even understand that the ship is sinking!”

“I wager our man doing the ordering does, however,” Holmes said grimly, and I glanced to the officer in question. He was watching the passengers descend, biting upon his lip, and he blinked furiously before glancing back toward the ship.

“Hoy! I'm coming, darling!” a man shouted, and to my astonishment he leapt overboard with another man, flinging himself down into the lifeboat. Screams erupted from those already inside as it tottered and swayed from the action, and a flurry of protests arose.

“What have you done?!”

“My goodness—you've landed atop her!”

“Help her!”

The fellow who had shouted had dropped himself square onto some unfortunate woman, knocking her cleanly unconscious. He seemed unconcerned about such an act, rising only in order that he might embrace his young wife, while the passengers whirred around him, trying to revive the other lady.

“It will only get worse,” Holmes muttered to me.

“I will stop that; I will go down and get my gun,” a nearby officer snapped with disgust, and he pushed past me, disappearing into the crowd.

Holmes pulled his watch from his pocket, straining to see it in the light emanating from the inside of the ship behind us. “It has been nearly an hour since we struck the iceberg.”

“It does not seem as though anyone knows precisely what to do,” I said, and Holmes frowned.

“I noticed that myself. Is there no policy in place? Why such a disparity in loading? Only women and children for one officer, anyone around—to a certain point—for another? And they are squabbling amongst themselves on how to load it, on when to load it, on how full they ought to be...do they not do drills? Do they not practise in the event of an emergency?”

“I cannot say,” I said.

A brilliant flash of light above caught my eye, and I tilted my head to view it. A bright white rocket had been fired, illuminating the sky and chasing away the darkness for a moment, and I blinked back spots in my vision after watching it. People near us clapped, murmuring in awe, and I wished that I could shake each one of them.

Holmes took my arm once more, leading me in the opposite direction. “The slope is more pronounced; I think we ought take ourselves to higher ground,” he murmured, and I shuddered at his announcement but allowed him to pull me along without comment.

* * *

By the time the second rocket had gone up, people no longer thought it a game to be gadding about on the Titanic so late at night. The ship had a noticeable tilt, and the crowd manoeuvred up and away, moving like a herd to where Holmes and I stood.

A twinge of uneasiness had settled amongst the group, and I saw no more people playing with the ice or laughing and shoving at one another in jest. When jostled, they did so out of fear, and it prompted the officers to fetch their revolvers.

One manning the lifeboat lifted his gun aloft, pointing it toward the crowd as a handful of men surged toward the boat. “I shall shoot if I must—do not force my hand!” he barked, and the gentlemen were quelled in their quest to gain access, hanging back with faces pinched all the more in fear.

I noticed Millet and Butt crowding near the front and next to the lifeboat, helping women to get closer and into it, and when Butt caught my eye, we shared a glance that lasted a moment. It seemed as though we commiserated over our fears being realised, and then he nodded. He said something to his smaller companion, and Millet glanced in our direction. His shoulders hunched with a sigh, and he offered a wave that did not seem jaunty in the least.

An older woman kicked up a protestation amidst being loaded into the boat, wriggling and snarling, demanding that she be let free. The officers ceased their business, setting her back onto the deck with some difficulty. A pronounced gap had opened between the life boat and the ship due to its increasing incline, and a woman slipped, falling hard when she attempted to navigate the space. Three men were thus appointed to do the job of two, and they called for people to make haste and climb aboard.

“I will not leave you! I will not! I will not!” a woman shrieked nearby, and I turned as I recognised the voice.

Mrs. Futrelle shook her head emphatically, gripping her husband by the arms, fingers nearly like claws as she clung to him.

“You must go!”

“I will not! I will not leave you, Jacques! I will not!” she cried, tears flowing down her face, voice breaking. Even as she argued with him, pleaded with him, he pressed her backward and toward the lifeboat. “Jacques!”

“For God's sake—go! It's your last chance! Go!” he said, prising her hands from him. The moment he did, she then grabbed at his shirt-front urgently, wailing.

“No! I will not leave you! I will not go without you!”

The officer, having watched the proceeding, deemed that he had wasted enough time waiting for her to enter of her own volition, and hauled her bodily off the deck. She screeched, kicking her feet fruitlessly in the air, reaching over the officer's shoulders for her husband.

“Jacques! Jacques! NO!”

“I love you, my darling,” he said with a sad smile, blowing her a kiss. She continued to scream, sobbing inconsolably even as a few members of the fairer sex tried to coo and comfort her in the lifeboat. She attempted to climb out, but was blocked by the officer who stood in the boat, accepting another woman who entered in an entirely docile fashion in marked contrast to Mrs. Futrelle.

When the boat lowered to the sea, it was considerably fuller than those we had previously watched, and I shut my eyes to the sound of Mrs. Futrelle's crying, carried to us still over the crowd gathered and hoping for salvation.

“I am sorry,” Holmes said to Futrelle, and he placed a hand upon the shorter man's shoulder.

Futrelle started, having not noticed our presence at his side. He smiled wryly, but the expression soon faded from his face. “Oh? I will be all right. There are many other life boats beside. I shall be with May soon enough.”

He made his way through the crowd with a nod of good-bye, and the next lifeboat began to fill with passengers. As each minute passed, people grew more concerned with the tilting of the ship. A woman vacillated as to whether she might enter or not, deciding it was too frightening to bridge such a gap. The officer took from her a large toy pig that she clutched like a child might a blanket, and hurled it into the boat with a temper.

“Get in the damned boat!” he snarled, and the woman clapped a hand to her face.

“My pig!” she cried, and her timidity left her as she leapt after her beloved doll.

“Here—allow me to help you,” a steward said to a lady nearby, who whipped into a fury at his very words.

“We're all going to die! We're all going to die! It's going down and it's taking the lot of us with it! May the Lord have mercy on us all!” she shrieked, grappling with him as he tried to navigate her to the vessel.

In her panic, she sent the both of them tumbling over the railing and into the boat, and she continued to yell even when safely stowed off the sinking ship.

“Lower the blasted thing!” the officer with a bullhorn cried, mumbling next to himself. “It is surely overloaded past its capacity...what more can I do?”

Screams arose from the passengers in the lifeboat as a jet of water from the ship hit it the moment that it rested upon the sea. Arguing and squabbling rose from below, and people jostled and bickered with one another as two crew members slipped down the ropes to land in the boat and take command of it.

The next boat filled all the more quickly, yet it had its share of troubles. Once again water cascaded from the ship's side, and the boat's occupants called out to those of us upon the deck. “Cease lowering!”

“There is soon to be disaster,” Holmes said, and I thought that he spoke of the ship. When screaming kicked up over the side, I realised what he truly meant.

A lifeboat had been launched in quick succession after the one that had requested a halt, and both groaned under the weight of the people that they bore. The lower one struggled to cut free from the ropes that had dipped it down into the sea, and so it was anchored in place as the second boat continued its drop, bearing ever closer to crushing those beneath it.

“Stop!”

“Help us!”

“Please!”

The second boat ground to a stop, and the people in the first life boat sawed frantically at the ropes, which snapped and allowed them to drift away to safety. The second boat completed its path and followed in the wake of the first.

Holmes and I passed through the throng of people and moved on to the side of the ship across from where we had stood moments earlier. Only one lifeboat remained there, and Holmes found my hand, squeezing it tightly. I held back to him, worried that my grip might be so fierce as to the point of painful, but the man said nothing, merely staring ahead with a sharp gaze upon his face.

The distance between this lifeboat and the ship was now perhaps the size of a man, and the officers loading it were quite literally hurling people over in order to ensure that they made the gap and did not plunge into the sea instead. One little girl who was thrown squealed in delight, mistaking it for a game, and she was caught by a grim-faced steward assisting the proceedings.

A small man with a moustache grabbed another child, throwing him into the boat. The officer who had possessed the bullhorn earlier directed two women forward, separating them.

“You cannot hold tight to one another! I understand that you are frightened, but you must jump.”

“Jump?! You must be mad!” the younger looking lady cried.

“Jump, damn you!” he insisted, and the women looked at one another and leapt at the same moment into the boat, letting out twin yelps of fright as they did so. A woman attempted to fling herself off the railing into the boat but caught her boot upon the hem of her dress, slipping and missing her mark. She and several occupants screamed, and quick thinking from the passengers prevented her from dropping down into the frigid ocean.

“Women! Women and children, into the boat!” the officer barked, voice starting to fray and grow hoarse from his continued shouting. One woman stepped forward hesitantly, and he repeated his instructions to her that she must make a leap for it. To my surprise, two palms pressed flat into my back and pressed me forward beneath the officer's nose.

“Yes?” he wondered, squinting suspiciously at me.

“I—” I said, turning to see what the devil had forced me to move.

“Take him. He is a doctor. A doctor and a rower,” Holmes said from behind me, and I sputtered, startled.

“What?! You—”

The officer grabbed my arm, yanking me toward the railing. “Make a jump for it, quick as you like.”

“I—” I glanced back to gain some measure of courage from Holmes, but he had vanished!

“Are you getting in or not? I haven't the time to debate, and I oughtn't let you in at all but you'd be of some use.”

“No,” I said firmly, releasing my hold upon the cold railing.

The officer merely nodded, returning his gaze to the deck. “Women and children! Women and children first—back, sir! You know better than that!”

I fought against the crowd that surged forward at his request for ladies and youth, shoving impolitely through as I struggled to free myself from the group.

I could not lose Holmes in this. If we broke from one another, I might never see him again.

I spotted him some distance ahead of me, weaving his way through the people. “Holmes!” I shouted, but my call was swallowed up by the clustering of passengers desperate to find some way to escape.

“Holmes!” I roared again, and he stopped, spinning on his heel. I might have marvelled at the look of surprise on his face otherwise, but I could not stop my heart from racing wildly in my chest. “How could you?”

“Oh, Watson,” he said softly. “I did not think they would take the both of us. I thought that you would get in.”

“Without you?! Then you know me not at all, to think that I would happily save myself and leave you to sink or swim.”

Holmes looked instead at the deck. “I had hoped that you might take your chance and save yourself.”

I put my hands upon his face, directing him to gaze back at me as I measured out my words to him. “I go where you go, Holmes.”

I kissed him then, frantically, and when he stepped back, I followed him. He leaned into the wall, drawing me closer to him, and I did not want to cease our connection even to take a breath. No one paid us any mind, skittering here and there in their mad dash for a way off the now-visibly doomed vessel.

Holmes pulled away from me, and his lips twitched downward as he brushed a thumb lightly to my cheek, wiping away tears that had sprung to my eyes and shed freely.

“Well, Watson. Let us continue onward.”

* * *

We approached one of the few remaining lifeboats, watching it lower quickly into the water. It did not have far to go—a disconcerting thought—and a melancholy chuckle emanated from behind me.

“Perhaps I spoke rashly earlier,” Mr. Astor said, and he took a breath upon his cigarette, holding it for a moment in his lungs before releasing it with a heavy exhale. “Do you know that I opened up a life-belt? I wished to show Madeleine that there was nothing to fear should the worst happen. We sat down on the mechanical horses in the gymnasium and thought it great fun.”

“Where is she now?” I wondered, and he snorted.

“I would not abandon her; she went down in the life boat you just viewed. I...I offered to join her. She is...in a delicate condition, as you know. I made mention of it, thinking that my presence might serve in keeping her calm. The officer would have none of it, however, and I merely bade her good-bye. I promised to her that I would catch a later boat,” Astor said, pausing and glancing at the cigarette clutched between his pale fingers. “I do not know if she believed me or not. I hope that she did. I hope her mind is not filled with thoughts of this ship taking me to the bottom of the sea.”

“It about broke my heart to have to force May to go, but I didn't feel as though the both of us ought to die when one might live,” Mr. Futrelle said, and I started, not having immediately noticed his presence at Mr. Astor's side.

At his words, Holmes stared pointedly at me, and I glanced away to avoid his hot gaze.

“What is all of that down there in the water?” I wondered, straining to make out the objects bobbing below us. Chairs, they seemed to be. Chairs, cushions—and was that a table? “Has the water reached us so quickly?”

“That would be the work of Mr. Andrews,” Astor said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “He has been at it for some time. When he isn't imploring people to don a lifebelt, or to enter a boat, he is seizing everything that floats and hurling it overboard like a madman.”

“To help those that will soon be in the water,” Holmes said, and I shivered at his calm tone.

“Yes, well. I think it a waste of exertion on his point, but I won't stop the man if it gives him some shred of peace in this moment,” Astor said, tipping ash from his cigarette.

“Care for a cigarette, gentlemen? Perhaps a cigar? We could fetch some from the smoking room—I do not think anyone would begrudge us that,” Futrelle said quietly, and I shook my head.

“I...no. Thank-you. We are going to keep searching for a way off.”

“Best of luck to you,” Astor said, looking out upon the sea now, voice detached and cool as though he had walked away from us and exited the conversation utterly.

“You will need it,” Futrelle snorted darkly. “We are like rats upon this sinking ship; we clamber and grasp for a way to safety and the officers are growing desperate—have you seen them waving their guns around and calling out warnings?” When I nodded, the man continued. “They will not be empty threats much longer—mark my words.”

We continued back the way that we had come, the deck sloping now to such a degree that it was more akin to hiking up a hill rather than a steady walk. I stopped when I spotted two people sitting casually in wooden deck chairs as though it were a sunny afternoon, bundled beneath blankets blatantly borrowed from their bedroom.

“Mr. Straus! Mrs. Straus!” I said, and both smiled up at me. I noted then that they held hands, leaning toward one another in their furniture.

“Doctor, Mr. Holmes. It is nice to see you once more,” Mrs. Straus said. “Were you unable to find a way off this ship?”

“Of a fashion,” Holmes remarked bitterly, and I sighed.

“They would have allowed me entrance, but seemed reluctant to do so. To try to drag Holmes along with me would have broken whatever tolerance they extended to me—and I would not board without him.”

“My darling Ida was offered a spot, but she would not go without me.”

“They would not allow you in?” I asked, and Isidor pondered my words.

“They made an offer of accommodation to me, especially when Colonel Gracie spoke on my behalf. It seemed in deference to my position—my wealth. I would not—I will not—take a place before other men, and so I declined.”

Mrs. Straus rubbed her thumb against the knuckles of her husband's right hand. “I will not be separated from my husband,” she said softly, next squeezing his hand. “As we have lived, so will we die—together.”

“Admirable. I commend the both of you on such sentiment.”

“Thank-you, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Straus said.

“Good-luck to the both of you,” Mrs. Straus said, although she did not seem confident.

“And to you,” Holmes responded, pulling me after him. As we moved away from the couple, the strains of music cut through the air, growing louder and more mournful the closer that we approached.

“Is that Propior Deo?” I asked Holmes.

“I believe it to be.”

“It is as though everyone is abandoning hope.”

“I cannot imagine there is much left to us now, Watson,” Holmes remarked, and I reflected and found his words to bear truth. “Would you continue to play gaily as your mode of transportation draws ever downward into the sea beneath your very feet?”

We passed the musicians, and Wallace Hartley opened his eyes as he heard our footsteps approaching. He offered the both of us a nod and a bright smile that spoke nothing of the trouble around him, and we drew around the band and in to the Titanic.

* * *

“Why have we gone back into the ship?” I asked him, but Holmes remained silent, leaving me to follow in his wake.

Everything seemed altogether too still, and creaking and groaning arose from every corner as we traipsed through the empty corridor.

“At least it is warmer in here,” I muttered to myself, and Holmes held the door to the smoking room open for me.

The slant was pronounced in the space, and I watched as some of the seats slowly drifted past tables, inching across the room with a harsh scraping sound.

“Whiskey, Watson, or brandy?”

“Honestly? Both,” I said, and although I did not mean it to be a joke, Holmes laughed all the same, allowing me to crack a fragile smile.

“I cannot fault your choice,” he said, and he disappeared to fetch the drinks for us. For whatever reason, I anticipated that he might pour them out into glasses, but when he returned, I found him in possession of two bottles freshly opened.

I took the brandy from him and gulped down a heavy swig of it, welcoming the warmth and burn of it as he performed similarly with the whiskey, exchanging his bottle for mine before imbibing from it.

“Drinking, are you?” a sad voice asked at a pace of several yards. I froze, not realising that we were not alone. Holmes did not seem surprised, wiping instead at his mouth with the back of his left hand but saying nothing.

Mr. Andrews stood in front of the painting of Plymouth Harbour, his fingertips alighting upon the ship sailing merrily in the port. He turned his attention back to us with a gentle smile. “Have as much as you like—it shall soon be weighted down otherwise.”

“What are you doing in here?” I blurted, wincing at the bluntness of my question.

He chuckled. “There is nothing else for me to do. I did the best that I could with what I was given—I hope that people remember that. I...I tried to help them. I tried to instil a sense of urgency within them when others would have them placid—calm.”

“You speak as though you are already dead,” I said hesitantly, and I noted his life belt on a nearby table, unbuckled and cast away. He followed my gaze, placing his hand atop it.

“This will not help me. I think you realise that, even if you do not yet admit it to yourself.”

“You mean to tell me that you are merely going to stand here and—and wait until the end? Just...do nothing?” I cried.

“Watson,” Holmes said.

“I apologise, gentlemen. I feel as though this is my fault.”

“It isn't,” I insisted, setting my bottle onto a table top. “You did not cut the life boat tally; you did not strike the iceberg; you did not tell people that there was nothing to worry about.”

“If I had only argued more stringently...but...that is in the past now. If you had only made haste, you might have caught a life boat. Chaos infested the loading...I would have helped you in to Collapsible D if I had seen you...Ah. It is too late now. Too late for you, too late for me...”

“You plan on doing nothing? Nothing at all to save yourself? Aren't you going to try for it, Mr. Andrews?” I asked, but Mr. Andrews had turned back to the painting. “Mr. Andrews...Mr. Andrews!”

He acted as though I was not there, just gazing blankly at the painting. I doubted that he even saw it before him, his soft eyes staring past it at something I could not see, and I was aware that Holmes had taken hold of my right elbow, weaving me out of the room as I began to yell at the shipbuilder.

“I do not think you will do Mr. Andrews much good by shouting abuse at him.”

I touched a hand to my forehead. “I should not have...I do not know what came over me. I ought to apologise—”

Holmes stood between me and the door, shaking his head. “I am certain that he understands.”

“But—”

“You ought leave the man alone,” Holmes insisted.

“It is such a waste,” I argued.

“I do not think there is much opportunity left to him. Do you really wish to spend unnecessary moments agitating him? Agitating yourself? We cannot help anyone upon this ship—we must help ourselves.”

“The very thought is an anathema to me,” I said, affronted at the suggestion, and Holmes laughed.

“I understand, but you can do nothing more whether you like it or no, and I won't have you flounder because of your obstinacy,” he said, taking my hand tightly in his own and leading me back onto the deck.

* * *

Water now lapped onto the deck, encroaching toward us, and I recoiled at the sight. People scrambled upward, crying and shouting, and many voices uttered languages that I could not comprehend. We moved as one body, straining for higher ground.

The deck now tilted ever closer to being almost vertical, and Holmes's boots skimmed upon the wood. He slid, struggling to right his balance, and failed, hitting the planking heavily and landing flat upon his stomach.

“Holmes!” I shouted, reaching down desperately to arrest his descent. He stretched his hand out, fingertips grazing against my own, and then he slipped backward the way that we had come, eyes wide. I dropped onto my back, heading after him.

I rejoined him, ignoring the sharp words he levelled at me.

“You have behaved altogether foolishly—what if I had landed in the water?”

“Then I would have gone in right after you,” I said without thought, helping him to his feet. “If I lose you now, I do not think I shall find you again—and I do not mean to test my theory.”

Holmes winced, bending inward on himself.

“Are you in pain?”

“I am fine—I think we ought to start again.”

“We should, and this time we will hold onto the railing,” I said in a voice I hoped would brook no argument. Holmes did not dispute my order, gripping the railing with both hands as we made our way once more to the end of the ship.

A man of God had taken up residence, digging in his heels and clutching to part of the railing in the centre of the deck with one hand, offering his free hand down to a clustering of people that grabbed at every portion of him they could manage. I could not decide whether they did it in an attempt to be closer to God or to keep their footing on the quickly sinking ship, and I continued on without reaching any conclusion.

I turned to speak to Holmes and found that he was not directly behind me. I feared that he had slipped once again—how would I locate him in this mess?—but he remained a few feet back, clinging to the railing with both his arms wrapped round it.

He stared into the distance, his expression similar to that of Mr. Andrews, and I did not like it. “Holmes?” I wondered, and when he did not answer me, I raised my voice and put a little heat into my tone when I repeated myself. “Holmes?”

He swallowed, blinking. “I...listen to them, Watson. Listen.”

I knew that he spoke not of the people around us, but rather those that swam hopelessly about in the water leagues beneath us. Whereas the voices of the people still onboard seemed to meld into nothing more than a buzzing of noise, the calls from those in the water each sounded distinct, striking through and into my bones. They were mindless shrieks, calls for assistance, prayers, cursing, and I shut my eyes for a moment.

It reminded me of Maiwand, yet I would have preferred combat to this.

I held a chance in war.

Holmes screwed his eyes shut, and I realised then that were a difference in coldly viewing a corpse, scurrying around a bloated body and obtaining clues, and witnessing the death of hundreds upon hundreds of souls. Men, women, children—each thrashed frantically in the water below, struggling to stay alive.

Holmes had never been present for such a thing, and I had casually written him off as being above the striking presence of death given his occupation.

But there was a difference. One, two people dying rested on an entirely different scale than a thousand or more!

I tried a different tack. “Holmes,” I said, voice gentle, and he glanced at me. I was thrown by the wild despair upon his face, but I made no mention of it. “Don't you think we ought to keep heading upward?”

“...Right. Of course,” he said, voice steadier than I anticipated, and he blinked once, twice, releasing a shuddery exhale before resuming his trek.

We clambered on, and my own boots slid, forcing me to tighten my hold upon the railing reflexively.

“Careful, Watson,” Holmes warned.

“Yes, I wouldn't want to slip now,” I said, and he tutted.

“No indeed because you would take me with you,” he remarked dryly, and I marvelled at how quickly he could squash down his emotions in order to make such a joke.

Rockets flared above us, lighting the dark sky in a trail of white that descended down upon us like tears, and no one clapped at the sight of them this time.

“The ship is rising.”

“I have noticed,” I said with some bite. I was not a complete fool.

“That is not what I mean, Watson. Can you not feel it? Hurry—we must hurry.”

“Where do we go?” I wondered. We had utterly reached the end, and I realised that Holmes spoke the truth. If it sunk any more, we could hold to the railing upon the tail of the ship and be utterly vertical in doing so.

“You climb over, gentlemen,” a man said as he held tightly to the railing, having positioned himself on the other side. I recognised him as the tiny man with a moustache who had bodily heaved women and children off into life boats earlier. “You'll want to hold tight, too.”

He offered a hand to me and I accepted it gratefully, scrambling to join him even whilst nursing some trepidation over the act. Once perched, I aided him in hauling Holmes up, who nestled in between the two of us.

“Thank-you,” I told him, and he shrugged.

“If I can help even one person, I'll feel a lot better,” he said, and then he offered a somewhat battered silver flask to the both of us. Neither Holmes nor myself rejected it, and when I took a sip of it, I found it to be whiskey.

“Have you been to the smoking room?” I wondered, and he smiled.

“I might have been,” he answered, taking a deep swig before tightening the cap back atop it and replacing it into a pocket upon his white uniform.

An almighty wave crested the bridge, submerging it in totality. One of the collapsible life boats, apparently beyond the means of any officer to free, bobbed away upon the water. People began to strike for it, clambering atop the rounded bottom and slipping off once more. They pushed and crawled over top others to try and raise themselves out of the sea.

“My God,” I said, watching as the ocean rose up to meet the first funnel. The cords holding it in place twanged and snapped, slithering free and releasing it from its spot. With a torturous groan, the thick pillar slowly fell to the right even though the ship itself leaned left. People in its immediate path began to scream as it toppled inexorably toward them, and a tidal wave flashed out when it slapped into the Atlantic, spreading water and bodies out in front of it. The overturned life boat joined one so full of water that it was barely afloat, and its passengers worked desperately to keep it from sinking beneath them.

The water now lapped up to the second funnel, but it did not break free. A deafening roar rumbled up from within the ship, and I glanced at Holmes, who seemed to read my mind without question.

“That is the sound of everything not bolted down within the Titanic sliding, Watson,” he said, and I wrapped my arms all the tighter round the cold bars.

“I'm glad I'm not still inside,” the small man to my far right said with a quiver. "I'd be busted up like a plate. I...I don't think everyone made it out. I don't think they wanted to come out, and if they changed their mind, they did it too late.”

I thought of Mr. Andrews in the smoking lounge, and shut my eyes.

“Watson!” Holmes hissed, grabbing my right arm and squeezing tightly, and I flung my eyes open at his exclamation.

The lights of the ship dimmed and then went out. They flickered to life once more, remaining lit for a few moments before extinguishing, and the screams of the people still aboard the Titanic rose over a peculiar stillness.

“Hold tight,” Holmes declared, and the little man with us needed no further bidding, wrapping himself round the railing like a lithe snake about an unfortunate rat.

“Why?”

“This ship cannot withstand the pressure put upon it as its sinking. It's going to have to give. So I tell you again—Hold. Tight.”

I knew to listen to Holmes when he warned me of some impending danger, and he had hardly uttered the words when an ear-splitting cracking and grinding overrode the shouting and whimpering from the passengers.

The ship immediately flopped heavily to the left, jarring me and nearly knocking me from my spot upon the railing. A handful of people who had joined us near the railing were flung away, sent screeching down to the water below with muffled screams.

The three of us tilted to the left but clung grimly on, and the ship began to almost right itself.

“What is happening now? We surely can't be stabilising,” I wondered.

“No,” the little man said. “We're about to be pulled down. Get ready.”

For a moment, we bobbed serenely, lifted upward toward the heavens, and the passengers who had not been hurled from the Titanic had quietened themselves—perhaps they said silent prayers.

Holmes found my hand and squeezed his own atop it, holding tight to me and bumping his shoulder against mine. He said nothing, and he had no need to do so; I believed that I could, for once, see into his mind as clearly as he so often did my own.

The ship slid down into the water, and I braced myself as the inky blackness reared closer and closer to us.

“Get ready, boys!” the little man whooped, and I half-imagined that he was enjoying himself.

I released the railing a few yards before it reached the waves of the ocean, worried that I might accidentally get stuck and be dragged down onto the sea's floor.

Nothing could prepare me for the water. It sucked my breath away and stung like a million knives upon any exposed flesh, and my clothing immediately weighted me down, forcing me to struggle. It did not help that two or three people used me as a chair, climbing atop me in order to stay afloat as they lacked lifebelts.

I dipped beneath the water, coughing and choking as I fought blindly against the passengers, who sought to keep me beneath them. Another person joined them, but I quickly realised that they were on my side, freeing me and allowing me to rise up to the surface with a shuddery gasp.

“Watson!” Holmes cried, both hands upon my face. “Are you all right?”

“I—I am. Thank...thank-you,” I managed.

“We need to find a boat,” he said, and I could barely see him. His hair was plastered flat against his pale face, and he cast a glance this way and that. “Do you not find it odd?”

“What?”

“I know for certain that I saw crew-members hefting lanterns into the boats—do you see any lights at all?”

Try as I might, I could see nothing at all. The sea stretched on, only a fraction darker than the night sky above us. A blanket of stars hung merrily over our heads, shimmering, but apart from their relatively dim light, nothing else broke up the vast darkness.

“No. Why...why have they not lit the lamps?”

“I can pose a possibility, although it is a grim one. We must swim for it, Watson.”

“In which direction? If we go the wrong way, we will assuredly perish.”

“And if we stay here debating, we will do the same,” Holmes countered, turning in the water. “This way.”

I swam alongside him for a few moments, attempting to think of anything but the frigidity of the water surrounding me. O, how I wished that I could have been on the ship, warm, snug, and in bed. I would have surrendered every coin to my name to be allowed to rest in the Turkish Baths at this precise moment.

“Help me! Please, God, help me!”

“Please!”

“Come back for us! Why is no one coming back for us?!”

Someone swam into me, and a spark of fear welled within me that they would try to submerge me like the group I had just encountered. They murmured an apology, mooning around me, and I continued with Holmes.

I swam into a mass, believing it to be one of the chairs that Mr. Andrews had thrown from the deck. It was too soft for that, however, and when I turned it over in the water, I realised that it was a woman with a baby strapped to her front. They looked to be sleeping, eyes shut and faces pale, and I released them with some amount of horror, recoiling away.

Another woman drifted by, kept aloft by her life belt, and she clung tenaciously to a Great Dane. She was alive but the dog was not, and she cried feebly against its neck, sobs heard over the slopping of the water.

“Halloa!” I called out, stopping in order to place a hand to my mouth. I could not cease my trembling, and my breath puffed out in front of me. I had no need of a reminder as to the cold of the water, however, and I raised my voice to shout again. “Halloa!”

People around me took it as a rallying cry, adding their own shouts to mine.

“Help us!”

“Hello!”

“Take my son, please! He's dying! He's dying! Why won't anyone help us?!”

Holmes preferred to keep silent, continuing to swim, but I stopped him after another stretch of minutes had passed.

“I think...think...we've been turned round.”

“Why's that?” he asked, his teeth chattering through his words.

“I have sighted that woman holding onto that dog before. She was crying the first time,” I said.

She was not crying the second time, stiff and still in the water with her beloved dog.

“Ah...” Holmes said, his breathing slow, shallow. “Well...as you said. It is difficult not to get turned about. No lights, after-all...”

“You said that,” I corrected, a touch of cold entering me that had nothing to do with the ocean.

“...Right,” Holmes said after a too-long pause.

I could not keep from quaking, trembling incessantly in the water, but Holmes had ceased to do so, and I racked my brains for the symptoms of hypothermia. Everything seemed to slip away from my grasp as quickly as I brought it to mind, however, and I decided that action—any at all—would be better than simply bobbing around and talking to one another.

“Follow me. I'll lead this time.”

“Of course,” Holmes said, making a gesture with his hand that I ought to begin, and I swam in a different direction.

With every passing moment, the cries rising from the water lessened in pitch and frequency, and I bumped into more and more bodies that drifted lifelessly along, eyes wide and casting an unseeing gaze upward, mouths slackened or tightly shut.

“Halloa!” I called out, and someone weakly echoed my call a few paces to my right. I ignored them, cutting through the water and forcing breath out. Each stroke of my arm and kick of my leg was like trying to crawl through treacle, and I pressed down the urge to simply take a break and rest.

Rest and shut my eyes.

No.

“Halloa!” I shouted with renewed vigour. This time the person near to me did not chime in, and I pressed onward doggedly. “Halloa—help us! Please!”

The stars continued to shine above, and I wondered in that moment how many had already taken their last breath. How many more were to die? Would we be saved, or would all of us in the water either drown or freeze to death?

“I suppose you haven't had any luck brushing into a...into a...a b-boat? What I would not give for a crackling...crackling...fireplace,” I called back to Holmes dryly, but he did not respond to me. “Holmes?”

I turned in the water, but did not find him behind me. I thought for a moment that he had somehow sunk beneath the crest of the ocean, but I knew it impossible—thank God for the life belt.

I had lost him instead at some point, and I back-tracked, pressing through a grouping of corpses, searching the faces for one that I might recognise and praying that I would not find what I sought.

Several yards back I spotted him, floating motionless, and I moved as quickly as I could. “Holmes!” I cried, and his eyelids flickered open when he heard his surname.

“Oh. Watson,” he slurred, voice thick.

“You cannot stop,” I said to him, and he blinked slowly. I touched my hands to his face and found his skin cold to the touch. He gazed at me when I brushed my fingertips against his cheeks, but his eyes were unfocused, and he shut them once more.

“Just...just a moment. I...'m so tired, Watson.”

“I know it, but you mustn't stop. Please...please, Holmes. Do not stop.”

“Go...go without me. I...I cannot manage it any longer, Watson. You might...you might still survive,” he said, breathing light as though he could not fill his lungs no matter how he tried.

“I will not leave you, Holmes!” I said, hot tears bristling at my eyes. He smiled in a wispy fashion, and I made up my mind.

I grasped at his lifebelt with one hand and began to pull the both of us through the water. Intermittently I shouted, voice cracking and straining from the calling I had already performed.

Gradually, I grew disoriented. Had I already swum through here? Did I pass that body before? My thoughts fragmented, and I blinked, stifling the now overwhelming urge to simply close my eyes and sleep. I continued to shake like a leaf upon a limb, and I shouted once more.

“Halloa!”

“Halloa!” someone called back, their own voice far stronger and quite loud in my ears. “Is there someone nearby?”

“Yes, God, yes!” I cried.

“Keep calling to us,” a male voice shouted. “Follow the sound of my voice if you can!”

My right hand trembled in the water as I dragged myself forward, and I clenched my fist around Holmes's lifebelt strap as though my own life depended upon it—and it did.

It did.

What on earth would I do if Holmes died here, upon the ocean?

What would I do if he left me behind?

“Halloa!” the man cried again, and I called out faintly, voice breaking.

“Are you still there?”

“Y-yes! Please—help me!”

“I am trying!” the man shouted back, and I could hear snatches of a conversation, although the boat was too far for me to discern anything from it.

“Holmes—you hear that, do you not?” I asked, and Holmes made a soft noise when I put my hand to his face again. His eyes were half-open, and he tilted his head back toward the stars. “Please, Holmes. Do not leave me,” I begged him.

He did not answer me; he did not even blink, and then the boat had bumped into me.

“Halloa! Are you there?” the man called, expecting me to be some distance.

“Yes! Here!”

“Ah! Jesus Christ!” he shouted, startled by my close proximity. Several women of the boat tutted, and he snapped back at them. “You can hardly blame me—we are all but on top of the man; how was I to know?!”

“Help—please!”

“All right. Give me your—”

“Help my friend first. He...he needs assistance more...more than I do,” I said.

“Give me your hands,” he said, and I pressed Holmes toward him. He lolled toward the boat, and one of the officers hissed out a complaint.

“Doesn't do us any good to be taking on corpses. The sea is full of them.”

“I've had enough of your mouth, and I'd bet everyone else has, too,” a sharp feminine voice cracked out. “Help his friend and get him up. If we can rescue even one person, then it is worth it.”

“Hear, hear,” a man said, and then hands were pulling Holmes out from the sea. He was utter dead weight, and when they hoisted him into the boat, he slumped to the floor and did not move.

“Give him your blankets, ladies. I know you're cold now, but imagine how he feels after spending time in the ocean. If you can, surrender your jackets as well,” the lady commanded, and a niggling thought in my head prodded at me. I knew that voice.

Warm hands reached beneath my own arms, lifting me out from the water. Space was made in a seat to accommodate me, and I struggled to reach Holmes. He remained resting at the bottom of the life boat, eyes gazing up toward the cold, unblinking stars.

“Well, I'll be damned. I wanted to see you again, Doctor, but not like this,” the woman said, directly upon my right, and when I turned to her, I realised that it was Mrs. Maggie Brown.

“Mrs. Brown!” I cried, astonished, and she placed her own blanket about my shoulders, tucking me in.

“Shush, now. Just bundle up into that and try to get warm. We'll take care of Mr. Holmes—don't you fret.”

I argued with the woman, but even as I spoke the words, I found myself slipping down into an exhausted slumber that I could not escape.

* * *

I did not recall our rescue from the merciless Atlantic. The ship was the Carpathia, and it had instantly thrown caution to the wind and flown to assist us, arriving only a couple hours after the Titanic had disappeared from the face of the sea.

Two hours might as well have been twenty—people can only last a good half hour or so upon freezing waters. Those that had been denied entrance to the life boats perished, and I believed that each of them had clung to the false hope that the life boats would circle back for them. That another ship would soon arrive. That something would come to their aid.

Each grasped at some desperate straw for survival, raggedly breathing and kicking through the water until the cold sunk too far into their bones and they stilled, allowing themselves to slip into a slumber from which they would not rouse.

I woke upon the ship and wandered, dazed. I roamed the deck, searching the faces for people that I recognised.

No, that was a lie.

I searched the faces for one that I knew well—and I did not find it.

Some groups of people gathered together, speaking quietly, and many simply stood like statues, staring off into space with a look of blankness. I imagined that I could go over and knock them to the deck and they would not react at all; I wondered whether I bore the same expression.

I found a man with a list of those they had culled from boats.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, and scanned the names he had recorded. He did not seem surprised to hear it uttered; I imagined that he had been asked the identities of many a great man and woman. “No. He is not recorded in the names of the living.”

I reeled at his words. It felt as though someone had struck me hard in the stomach, and I took a step away from him.

“My condolences, sir,” he said sympathetically, moustache twitching as he spoke.

One woman draped over a younger one, crying brokenly, and I passed numbly by her. Ordinarily I would hurry to comfort her, even though she was a stranger to me. I might offer her a handkerchief, or ask what troubled her.

I could not offer her any words to console her. Emptiness ate away at me, and I turned my face from the women, reaching the railing of the ship.

My hands tightened around the cold bars, and remembrances of the Titanic standing nearly on end flickered through my mind. Holmes and I had clung to it, and he had clasped my hand.

I brought my hand to my lips, tears burning at my eyes.

The things I would have said differently—done differently—had I known what would have happened.

I stared out upon the sea, waves bumping and lapping against the hull of this new ship. Had they listened to the officer's advice? Had they dropped Holmes back into the water after determining he was dead? Did he float even now upon the water, held aloft by the blasted belt?

Had they taken it from him and allowed him to sink into the ocean?

Would I be forced to mourn at an empty grave side once more? This was no Reichenbach—he had succumbed, and he would not return.

The thought of a stone far too small to bear the name of a man far too great broke my tenuous composure, and I bent into the railing, covering my face and weeping into my hands.

What would I do now?

I could not stay in Sussex Downs. Everything would remind me of Holmes. Retiring in the first had been his idea. Getting a cottage had been his idea. Each time that I gazed out upon his infernal bees, I would be reminded of the marked fondness he possessed for them.

Whenever I passed the chemicals that he still tinkered at—for hobby at this point rather than occupation—I would recall the instances he used them for a case. His excited chirping over breaking some mystery, his hand waving in the air as he called me to his side so that he might explain and demonstrate his findings for me, utterly patient in the face of my befuddlement.

We shared the same cigarettes, and now when I would strike a match and bring one to light, I would remember Holmes's hand curling around my own as he stole one from me upon the moors with the Baskerville case. He had lifted it from me, silencing my protestation with a kiss, his mouth curving up into a smile that dissolved into a laugh as he pressed into me, giggling at my annoyance that he had fumbled and accidentally dropped my cigarette into the mire.

Scraps of paper scattered haphazardly about the cottage, cluttered with his precise handwriting, would be a strike to me. There was no tenderness in his writing; he utilised it for a purpose, but the strokes would remind me of the man whose eyes shone with a certain softness when we were alone and whose hands were gentle upon my shoulder when an old wound roused itself with a throbbing ache.

Our bed, once altogether too cramped and small for two people and a source of debate that continued up until our journey, would suddenly become too big. Empty. I complained at having to share such a tiny space when we could afford bigger, but Holmes planted his heels in, refusing to swap it out as he had grown accustomed to it. My words were more for show than not; I had a multitude of excuses as to why I had to curl closer to Holmes, or to bring him to me.

I did not need them, however—I had never needed them.

And now I had lost him.

I could not stop trembling, screwing my eyes shut against my palms as I continued to cry.

Oh, Holmes.

“You know I cannot bear to see you like this,” a sad voice said weakly behind me, and my head shot up at the sound.

I whirled, certain that my mind played a cruel trick upon me. Once I shifted, I would see that I had only imagined the voice I wished desperately to hear.

Holmes stood a few paces away, an ashen quality to his skin but alive.

Alive.

“Holmes! But...”

“I have been searching for you for perhaps a quarter of an hour now,” he said, voice quiet and tight.

“Your name was not in the list of survivors,” I said, stepping toward him as he pulled a bitter grimace.

“No, I should imagine not. I did not want it to be bandied about as gossip, and so I used one of my aliases—Basil.”

I merely touched a shaking hand to his face, and he closed his eyes when my fingers brushed against his cheek.

“You are alive,” I said, almost a question.

“I think so,” he admitted wryly, and I lunged for him, crunching him to me. Holmes melted into me, sinking into my embrace, and held me with as much fervour as I offered to him.

“I remembered you hauling me through the water...vaguely...it seemed like something from a bad dream. You ought to have let me go.”

“I could never do so,” I swallowed at the lump in my throat, burying my face against his shoulder.

“Oh, Watson,” he sighed. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“And I, you!” I cried.

“They did not have your name on any list. I went round to every man. I asked them to check, and check again. I looked for you in the people upon the deck and had nearly fallen into despair. I could not believe...I would not believe...”

“I felt the same.”

“What would I do without you, Watson?” he asked, squeezing me.

“I do not wish to find out,” I responded, and then he held me at arm's length. His eyes seemed to shine wetly and then he blinked it away.

“Nor I,” he muttered wryly. “I suppose I ought to avoid water from now on? First Reichenbach, then this...?”

“All I want,” I said, pausing when my voice quavered upon the words. “All I want is the peace and quiet of Sussex Downs. I want to go home.”

Holmes smiled gently, thumbs rubbing lightly against my upper arms.

“As do I, my dear Watson.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I have a LOT of notes:
> 
> -People said that they really DID do that hymn that Sunday. Would give me the shivers, just saying.
> 
> -With the musicians playing their song--no one knows for certain what their last song WAS. Some adamantly swore that it was some strain of "Nearer My God to Thee". Others--like Colonel Gracie--said that he would have remembered if it had been "Nearer My God to Thee" because he would have thought it tactless and inciting panic. There are also several versions OF "Nearer My God to Thee"; some people recall hearing "Horbury" (English), and some people recall hearing "Bethany" (American/Canadian). Most strikingly--Hartley was raised Methodist and adored the Methodist version called "Propior Deo"...and he was known to have said that should he be stuck playing on a sinking ship with no chance for survival, he would absolutely play it. So I went with it! (Plus, you know, hearing "Nearer My God to Thee" on violin and imagining the ship sinking is just devastating, not gonna lie).
> 
> -I'm gonna give a run down of the people appearing in this story and their fate, in case my implications weren't strong enough. WT Stead gets special mention given he predicted he would die either by lynching or drowning and wrote two stories--one where a ship strikes an iceberg and another where a ship sinks and has a high cost of life due to too few lifeboats. He died. Mrs. Astor (survived), Mrs. Astor's maid (survived), Mr. Astor (died), Mrs. Futrelle (survived), Mr. Futrelle (died), Mr. Straus (died), Mrs. Straus (died), Maggie Brown (survived), Frank Millet (died), Colonel Butt (died), Wallace Hartley/every single musician (died), Thomas Andrews (died), J. Bruce Ismay (survived). Damn; this list depressed me.
> 
> -Special note for Andrews/Ismay: Ismay was RUINED afterward. The life boat issue and the fact he was able to get into one when so many passengers died just wrecked his reputation. It didn't help matters that his actions were contrasted to Thomas Andrews, who vigorously convinced people to get into life boats, helped to load at least one collapsible, threw stuff over board, and was last seen in the same manner as described here (I even borrowed Watson asking if he wasn't gonna try for it from a steward who supposedly asked the same thing of him).
> 
> -YES, people did play with ice as an impromptu game of football. YES, a woman refused to get into a lifeboat until her toy pig was thrown in and then she jumped after it. Absurd, isn't it?
> 
> -It was complete CHAOS. The captain was paralysed with indecision; Lightoller (that would be the officer who ONLY took women and children) (survived) stated that he had to ask the captain whether he should start loading women and children; Smith said yes and then just stared into space. Murdoch (the officer with the bullhorn) (died) took it to mean "grab all the women and children nearby, then let in men as per my mood on the subject". One officer didn't even know the extent of the sinking--UNTIL HE SAW A LIFEBOAT GO BY IN THE WATER. He had no idea they were evacuating. IMAGINE. When Holmes and Watson hear Murdoch telling a crew member good-bye and good luck and the officer being baffled by it as he was coming right back--that happened, too. They really did believe that it was a lot of silliness and it wasn't helped by the band being told to play--and if the CREW didn't know what was up...why would the passengers believe the situation to be grave?
> 
> -But, yeah...like I said. A lot of the officer dialogue/passenger dialogue I weaved as a mix of my own creation and actual, known quotes. Situations of the people's last moments (those I've had cameo, anyway) are given from reports I've read. These notes are already long; I can't possibly detail everything. Quick note, though: there were 12 dogs on the Titanic, and three (two Pomeranians and a Pekingese) survived. People were furious afterward that dogs were saved when human life was not. One woman (Ann Elizabeth Isham) was not allowed to take her Great Dane into the lifeboat with her--and so she chose not to save herself at all. A recovery boat saw her clinging still to the dog.
> 
> -Practically no boat tried to save people. Maggie Brown attempted, but there's debate if her boat actually did (and Hitchens, the crew member mentioned, WAS reported to be a complete dick). One boat waited until the people had "thinned out" before trying a rescue mission. They saved FOUR PEOPLE--and one died. THREE PEOPLE out of over 1500 in the water. It's absolutely disgusting that there was plenty of room in nearly every boat and instead they just listened to people screaming and begging and refused to do anything about it.
> 
> Anyway, there you have it! Hope you enjoyed it; I've run out of room here. If you have any additional Titanic questions, give me a comment and I'll answer them if I can!! Thanks for sticking with me!!


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